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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26776501">breathe between the waves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem'>Heronfem</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Waves of Time [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Violence, Aiden is a Cat who is sometimes a cat but it's okay we love him, Altered Mental States, Boys Being Boys, Break Up, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Family, Ficlet Collection, Friendship, Humor, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Improper Use of Witcher Signs (The Witcher), Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Miscommunication, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Open Relationships, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queerplatonic Relationships, Self-Defense, Slice of Life, Survivor Guilt, Suspense, Teenage Dorks, Worldbuilding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:34:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>45,632</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26776501</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing moments on the Continent. (A Witchertober fic collection!)</p>
<p>20- Lost: Geralt reluctantly arrives at the Dyn Marv caravan to do the right thing and receives a warning. (Hunt #4, End)<br/>21- Feral: Lambert's husband Aiden is a Cat who sometimes thinks he's an actual cat. This is less of an issue than it appears. Coen puts up with so much nonsense.<br/>22- Wish: Eskel accidentally gets a reputation for granting succubus wishes. It's more wholesome than he expected.<br/>23- Monster: Jaskier develops an interest in drowners, leading Geralt to show him one of the funnier parts of monster hunting.<br/>24- Hmm: Geralt and Jaskier start to communicate.<br/>25- Silver: Jaskier deals with the consequences of a monsters actions.<br/>26- Contract: Coën puts up with a lot in the name of making sure his love struck best friend has time to work out his feelings.<br/>27- Scream: Yennefer offers a gift. Jaskier makes a choice. Everyone suffers.<br/>28- Mother: The stories of Vesemir, Eskel, Coën, and Lambert's mothers.<br/>29- Aretuza: Yennefer doesn't eat eels.<br/>30- Coin: Geralt comes to a realization, and Jaskier's wardrobe suffers for it.<br/>31- Sleep: Yennefer stays.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aiden &amp; Lambert &amp; Coen, Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel &amp; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Vesemir, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion &amp; Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Waves of Time [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2207790</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>364</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>368</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Coast (Pre-relationship Yennefer/Jaskier, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The prompt list used: https://bamf-jaskier.tumblr.com/post/630799461708382208/so-just-in-case-anyone-wants-a-prompt-list-for</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Coast: Yennefer and Jaskier wind up at the coast, and allow themselves a moment to reflect and grow closer.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the end, it's Yennefer who takes him to the coast. </p>
<p>Not intentionally. It just happens. </p>
<p>They go falling through the portal and into salt sprayed air, landing on rough grass. Jaskier finds himself retching as his body does its best to understand the sheer distance it’s suddenly been dragged and the horrible discomfort of the portal. It closes with a wave of Yennefer’s hand, and in a rare show of kindness, she rubs along his back to help soothe him as a few tears leak out from the discomfort. </p>
<p>“Sorry,” she says, rather gentler than he’s expecting. “I didn’t know you didn’t portal well, even Geralt takes it easier.” </p>
<p>“S’been… a while,” he coughs out, but he does manage to keep his dinner inside of him, the retching finally leaving as he falls in a crumpled heap onto the grassy turf. He can hear seabirds calling, their voices carried on the air, and he slowly lifts his head to take in their surroundings. </p>
<p>They’re in a low, grassy depression, sand dunes rolling on in the distance. Beyond those, the ocean is washing in and out. Kerack, he thinks, judging by the cliffs that he can see in the distance. They must be at the bottom of it, because his cousins have a place to the North and while it looks similar, it’s not quite the same. He levers himself up, pulling his feet in to sit cross legged. His lute is with him, and that’s the important bit. They’d had to flee the party fast once the killing started. He can probably have her pop back for his bags at the inn he’d been staying at. </p>
<p>“The coast,” he says quietly, looking at it. Yennefer nods, looking out at the waves. “Well. The irony is not lost on me.” </p>
<p>“Irony?” </p>
<p>“Long story, my dear.” </p>
<p>He climbs to his feet, brushing his knees clean of the crushed grass and grainy dirt. Yennefer comes up with him, her gown not daring to do something so terrible as let dirt cling to her. It’s a particularly lovely one, she’s traded out black for an evening of gorgeous indigo that offsets her eyes wonderfully, and it’s made of some sort of impossibly floaty material that clings to her body for moments, just enough to be near scandal. The neckline also plunges all the way past her navel, which doesn’t help. Jaskier takes a moment to just look at her. She looks back, eyebrow raising. </p>
<p>“You never cease to surprise me,” Jaskier says at last, and holds out his arm. She looks at it askance. “Come, we’re on a beach. Let’s at least go look at the waves.” </p>
<p>She takes his arm. </p>
<p>They take off their shoes when they reach the surf, and Jaskier rolls up his trousers to his knees, Yennefer girding up her dress without so much as blinking at the wrinkles it’ll leave. She’s good at it too, with ease of long practice, and when they step out in the water Jaskier feels… </p>
<p>It’s silly, to say that the ocean takes away his concerns. He has worries. He wants his clothes back, and Yennefer still might make him a frog, and he doesn’t know where he’ll eat tomorrow, and he still can’t figure out that chord progression for “Lady of Longing”, and there are a thousand and one other little things bothering him- but. </p>
<p>It’s easier. </p>
<p>The tide tugs at his feet, sunset bathing the water in golden brilliance. Those concerns are very far away. </p>
<p>Yennefer leans against him, head just reaching his shoulder, and links their hands together as they stand. </p>
<p>“I thought about leaving you,” she says, quiet. “I did.” </p>
<p>“I know.” </p>
<p>He’d seen it in the chaos. They’d locked eyes across a ballroom slowly filling with blood and screams, and he’d watched her make the choice. It had been the smallest head tilt, a little ‘come on, then’, that had sent him scrambling through the bodies and to her side so she could throw the pair of them through space. </p>
<p>He turns enough to kiss the top of her head. “You didn’t, though.” </p>
<p>“I didn’t,” she agrees, and squeezes his hand. “I… Jaskier.” </p>
<p>“Hmm?” </p>
<p>“Will you come with me, up the beach?” </p>
<p>Jaskier lifts their joined hands, and kisses her knuckles. “Lead me on and I will follow forever.” </p>
<p>She catches the double meaning, and looks up at him, violet eyes lovely in the setting sun. “That’s a dangerous promise, bard.” </p>
<p>“Have you ever known me to make reasonable ones?” </p>
<p>At that she smiles, and truly, she is beautiful when it’s one of these smiles. Soft, truly amused. Gentle. He wishes he had a way to capture this moment, the sunlight dancing on the water and the deep indigo of her gown, her hair free and loose, the blue gown kilted up to show her legs without a care. “I never have, no. But… I buried a child near the cliffs, and I’d like to go and leave something at the spot.” </p>
<p>“Oh, Yennefer,” he says, and pulls her in tight for a hug. She’s stiff for a moment, before her arms tentatively come up to hold him back. It’s tenuous at first, tentative and uncertain, but she sinks into it after a moment and buries her face against the forest green of his doublet. </p>
<p>When they find the place that the princess was left for the sea to take, Yennefer sits down on the sand. Jaskier joins her, looking out at the waves. </p>
<p>“It was long before I met you,” she says at last. “There was an assassin. The king had his own wife and child killed so he could marry someone else. Pathetic, really. Thinking that a queen wouldn’t be just as good. But maybe he thought he had too many girls. He never did have a son, though.” </p>
<p>Jaskier hums. “Did you curse him to only have daughters?” </p>
<p>“Mmm, no,” she says, and smiles a little. “That was how he was to start with. Not even any of his mistresses had boys. He learned in the end, but not before his people rose up and put a new King, a better one, on the throne. The people liked Kalis, and I told the story to every town crier I could find. I brought him down without lifting a finger.” </p>
<p>“Beautiful,” Jaskier says, approving. She smiles, leaning into his shoulder again. </p>
<p>“I thought so,” she agrees, and the smile fades. “Tell me about the irony.” </p>
<p>Jaskier sighs. “I asked Geralt to come with me to the coast, on the mountain. He wasn’t inclined to agree, since he’d just been very disagreeable with you, too. But here you are, instead, taking me. Funny, how things work out.” </p>
<p>Yennefer finds his hand, absently playing with his fingers. “He’s a fool of a man.” </p>
<p>“He is that,” Jaskier agrees, and kisses the top of her head again. He’s feeling very soft and fond right now. “He is that.” </p>
<p>They watch the sun sink down until only the slivers of light remain on the horizon, and when Jaskier stands and helps Yennefer up, he finds himself at peace. The ocean devours all, time, memory, and physicality alike. Together they walk back down the beach, a portal rending open and swallowing them whole, and the ocean waves sweep up to swallow the footprints as they vanish from the beach.</p>
<p>They may as well have never been there.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Oxenfurt (Pre-relationship, Geralt&Jaskier, G)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Oxenfurt: Geralt arrives at Oxenfurt and makes the decision to allow Jaskier to come with him for a second year.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt doesn’t really know why he does it. But all the same, he arrives in Oxenfurt at the start of spring, when the trees are blooming and the rowdy students are cavorting around the city celebrating the freedom of being let loose from snow. There’s still a bite in the air at night, but the days are almost reasonable. It’s a pleasant part of the year, aiming to become more pleasant still. </p><p>He stables Roach and goes to the university, who admit him after a few looks askance at his swords, and he finds his way to the library. </p><p>The boy is there. </p><p>Jaskier had yammered about how he loved to read, how much he missed it over their summer travels together, and had been more than a little enthusiastic about the library when Geralt had escorted him back in the autumn. He pauses at the end of a bookshelf, watching Jaskier turn a few pages. He’s writing at the same time, hand flying across the page without even looking. He looks good. His hair is longer and scruffier than it was, in dire need of a trim, but he’s put on some weight at last. His body doesn’t seem to be in that teenage stage of burning up everything anymore, and without walking endless miles every day, he’s probably able to keep weight on easier. There’s a softness over the muscle, and while Geralt knows full well Jaskier’s got shocking amounts of strength under his doublet, it’s enough to convince most passerby that Jaskier is just an everyman.</p><p>He’s so young still. Fragile in ways he doesn’t understand, and malleable in ways he certainly does. He’s beautiful and clever and an idiot, and light with his fingers and true with his heart. Geralt wants to know what he’ll become, this strange little bard with his joys and unabashed love of the world.</p><p>Geralt makes a decision. </p><p>He sits down across from him, near silent, and waits. </p><p>Jaskier doesn’t look up for another five minutes, and when he does, he just blinks. </p><p>“Oh,” he says, blankly, and Geralt waits for his brain to catch up to this new information. And three, two, one… “OH! Geralt! Hello! What in the world are you doing here? Hi! It’s so good to see you!” </p><p>Jaskier is 19 and silly and ridiculous and <em>fun</em> and Geralt adores him for it. </p><p>“Was passing through. You coming this year?” </p><p>Jaskier’s eyes go saucer round. “I can?” </p><p>“You can.” </p><p>Jaskier leaps to his feet, throwing his arms in the air in triumph. “YES!” </p><p>Five different voices hiss at him to shut up and sit down, and Geralt has to shove his fist against his mouth to keep from laughing out loud as Jaskier sits down, bright red. Jaskier gathers up his book, returning it to a cart, and then grabs his notebook and Geralt’s arm to tug him out towards the door. Geralt goes, nodding to the glaring librarian as they pass. </p><p>The second they’re outside Jaskier bursts out, “I’M SO GLAD YOU CAME BACK I MISSED YOU SO MUCH!” And hugs him, tight. </p><p>Geralt sighs, because some things never change, and awkwardly pats his back. “Come on, off.” </p><p>“Right, sorry! I’m just- I really missed you!” Jaskier bounds down the steps to the library and drags him over to one of the trees to plop down with youthful flexibility at its roots. “You went to Kaer Morhen? How was it? How were your brothers? Did everyone get back okay? I was working all winter on a song cycle and it looks like there’s going to be a lot of really good material for education songs because I thought, you know, might be useful for songs about how to avoid getting killed by monsters? OH! And there’s a katakan in the sewers, I think.” </p><p>Geralt buries his face in his hands, and laughs. </p><p>He hunts down the person with the reward out for the katakan and goes hunting after he manages to convince Jaskier that yes, he will be coming back. In a wonderful turn of events, it even actually <em>is</em> a katakan and not some other random monster of the week. He gets paid, gets a very nice bath on Jaskier’s chit to the university bathhouse, and they get on the road. </p><p>Jaskier is thrilled that Roach remembers him, and feeds her a precious sugar cube, because he’s a sap. He’s better outfitted than he was last time, with sturdy but embellished boots, and hardier clothing with clever designs meant to last longer. A few of them have simple embroidery or pinking, but one has very sturdy lace trim attached that has Geralt raising his eyebrows. </p><p>“I made good money off of the song,” Jaskier informs him tartly when they stop for lunch, and then shoves the shirt at him. “But look how <em>nice!</em> And I didn’t even have to add the trim myself!” </p><p>They make camp only 9 miles out from Oxenfurt, but Geralt knows it’ll be a while before Jaskier has picked back up his ground eating stride that carried him well over 18 miles a day. Jaskier doesn’t mind, chattering away as he sets out his (much nicer than last years) bedroll and starts on prepping the firewood for Geralt to light. Geralt sits back against a boulder to watch him work, listening to snatches of song and conversation. </p><p>There’s a simple joy in this, the bright curiosity and wonder of seeing the world through Jaskier’s eyes. Jaskier is unblemished by the worst of the world, few rough edges, and that softness seems at times to leech into Geralt as well. </p><p>It isn’t so bad, to remind him that there’s softness still. Not all the world wants him dead. </p><p>This small part of it, this little clearing where they rest, wants nothing more than to see him alive and thriving, and as Jaskier pops up to beam at him and show him how he’s improved on his fire building technique, Geralt feels some little strain in his chest ease. </p><p>This will be a good year.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Woods (Geralt, T, Hunt #1)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Woods: Geralt is hunted for sport, and is forced to make a choice that may have heavy consequences later.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt gets the news later than he would like, a few scrawled words from a shaking hand. Jaskier is far from him, for once a relief, because he has absolutely no time. He gathers his things and Roach and rides hard and fast, that paper pressed tight to his skin under armor and shirt, but he knows he’s too late. </p><p>The woods sit flush against the road, here. They seem to be encroaching, tight and narrow, and Geralt knows he’s going to have to make a choice. Into the woods with him, or down along the road, where there are hunters waiting to make him their prey. Jaskier’s words burn against his skin. </p><p><em>Count Roland fa Haryse has taken to hunting Witchers as his prey, as men are not enough challenge. He killed one known as Murrin of the Cats last month, Bertilak of the Bears six months before that. You must run.</em> </p><p>He climbs off of Roach, and she looks at him with big, soft eyes as he pulls his saddlebags from her. The saddle is nice, the bridle good quality. Someone will catch her and take her as a riding horse, not a plow horse. She’s a fine girl, if a bit silly sometimes, and he presses his face to her soft, warm neck and breathes her in. She is one of very many Roaches, but it never gets any easier to let them go, not after all the work he puts in and the struggles he goes through with only her beside him. Maybe they’ll get lucky and he’ll meet her again someday. </p><p>He rather doubts it.</p><p>He takes a step back and takes a deep breath, then blows the signal for her to run from him. </p><p>She runs. </p><p>He turns, and flees into the woods. </p><p>Geralt teaches the signal to all of his horses. It’s a good thing for them to know, a whistle pattern to teach them that the monster means business and they’re in danger. He teaches them to snap their reins from branches or hitching posts and just run until they can’t find him with any senses. It takes doing. </p><p>It’s a last resort.</p><p>He already misses her. </p><p>The sun is going down, the last golden rays slipping delicate fingers through the branches and brambles of the wood, the straight trunks of quaking aspens easy to slip through. Their white on black will camouflage him as well as anything might. He keeps his steps light, straining his ears for the first bay of hounds. Above him the aspens chatter in the wind, their shivering leaves sending echoes bouncing against the loamy floor of the wood and against their siblings. No, not siblings, he remembers. They are all one tree, with different upshoots, a living, breathing organism much greater than the sum of its parts. </p><p><em>Like Witchers</em>, his mind whispers. It sounds like Eskel. <em>Witchers at the core, no matter their school.</em> </p><p>Geralt dips through the trees, deeper into the woods. The sunlight starts to struggle to find purchase on the leaf littered ground. It doesn’t matter. He won’t mourn the Cat, but he’d met Bertilak once. Massive, monstrous man, but good enough as Witchers went. He skids on leaves, cursing at the mark they leave, and takes a moment to situate his saddle bags better against his sides. </p><p>Geralt stops dead when he hears a faint noise in the distance, lifting his head and scenting the air. Far in the distance, hounds. Not yet baying, but yipping as they go. </p><p>He’s met nobles like this before. Man hunters. Murderers for pleasure. His fate was sealed the moment he entered the tavern and the barkeep spotted his medallion and eyes. Two kills down, and one a Bear? fa Haryse would have known he would learn of their deaths and be eager for another hunt. He’d glanced at the notice board on his way into town and thought it odd, the number of fliers for different monsters. The fa Haryse lands are on a trade route, ripe for passing hunters, but now… now those fliers look like traps. Get him to the castle, drug him, knock him out, drop him in the woods he’s now running through. Someone at that bar would have had a xenovox to send word to waiting hunters in the event he took off.</p><p>He’s skipped a few steps of fa Haryse’ plan. </p><p>Or. </p><p>He pulls the paper from his shirt and looks at it closer, feeling his heart sink. </p><p>Jaskier doesn’t make his n’s that way. Not even when he’s upset. </p><p>“Son of a bitch,” he breathes, and runs. </p><p><em>Idiot!</em> Lambert’s voice howls as he runs. <em>Barkeep just said he had a message for a Witcher of your description, never gave a name, when’s the last fucking time Jaskier shut up about that fucking White Wolf name you’ve got thrown around your neck?</em></p><p>The aspens rattle as he leaps through them, extending his legs as far as they can go, mouth open to suck in air and scent better as he runs. The world is a blur of black and white limbs as he launches himself from stones to clear brambles, eyes blown wide to take in every moment. If he can only get to the edge of the forest, he may have some luck. He should have fled over open plains, ducked through houses, ran anywhere but here. Stupid! Jaskier’s handwriting is distinctive, certainly, but in the way that all handwriting from nobles is learned to be elegant and graceful. Fuck, Roland fa Haryse might well have studied at Oxenfurt. </p><p>The sun is on its last legs when he reaches the river Okadren, sharp rocks leading down a steep drop off near seven feet to the rushing rapids below. The river is narrow and looks bitter cold, running hard and fast over dangerously smooth rocks interspersed with larger, more jagged siblings that jut out like razor teeth waiting for a meal. On the other side is another section of forest, this one darker. Deeper. Tangles of brambles stand between the dark-barked trees, oaks, maples, and pines clustered together in a snarl. The light does not want to linger between the tree trunks.</p><p>The hounds start to bay as he pants, mind whirring.</p><p>He has options. </p><p>Follow the river up, towards where his pursuers may have started. Follow the river down, back towards town, where there would be a crowd of people who would happily hand him over. Get in the river and hope he doesn’t die in the rapids, get out before town and run. Or… face the crossing, and the beating, untrod heart of the forest. </p><p>When the hounds reach the river bank, there is no Witcher to be found.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Kaer Morhen (Vesemir, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>How Vesemir wound up as a teacher, or, lessons on neutrality (and not fucking the nobility).</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I just need you all to know I picture Young Cocky Asshole Vesemir as this picture of Javier Bardem, and you are so welcome: https://inezandvinoodh.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/Javier_Bardem.jpg</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Vesemir is all of 45 years old when he’s recalled to Kaer Morhen in the middle of summer. The year is hot and brutal, tensions ramping up around the countryside as he leaves the newly formed nation of Lyria to their own issues (reluctantly kissing the new and very lovely Queen goodbye and waving to the king) and starts working his way north into Kaedwen. The note, sent to him by messenger raven and bearing the sigil of the Committee, is blunt but clear. He is wanted immediately, and there will be coin sent to smooth his way along the Coppersmith Route. He is not to stop for anything but rest. He is not to speak to anyone unless necessary. Vesemir makes a face at the note, but it’s not like he has anything else going on, so he sets himself on that highway and rides for the colder north. </p><p>He arrives at the base of the mountains that cradle Kaer Morhen and takes a day to sleep at the inn there, just to recover his strength for the climb. He knows it’ll be bad, so he rests as much as he can stand before thanking the innkeeper and starting with his horse up the mountain. </p><p>It’s a miserable trek, but arriving in the little valley that holds Kaer Morhen makes it worth it. He hasn’t been here in summer since he left, and it really is beautiful to see it all lit up in the warmth of comfortable light and everything all dazzling colors rather than bleak white-on-black. He gets his horse stabled, chucks his gear into one of the bedrooms, dodges the millions of tiny bodys underfoot, gets a bath, gets some food, cleans his hair up a little, and finally takes a moment to breathe when the dinner bell clangs. The usual Witchers who run Kaer Morhen are there, but there’s a couple of his brothers staying through the year to either recover from a bad past year or work on expanding the bestiary library. They sit next to him, slapping him on the back and groaning when they get him started on stories, but they all scatter when Master Mattias catches his eye and beckons. </p><p>“Good luck,” one of his brothers mutters, and Vesemir snorts. </p><p>He doesn’t need luck. Whatever this is, it’ll be fine.</p><p>The Committee is 10 Witchers of the first through fourth generations, all of whom look incredibly tired when he joins them in the round tabled conference room that’s off to the side of the Great Hall. Mattias takes his seat at the far edge of the table, and gestures him into a chair. Vesemir flops down, and it’s only Gethin’s murderous look that keeps him from propping his boots on the table.</p><p>“Let’s get this over with. Vesemir, you’re going to be staying here for another two years,” Mattias says bluntly. “King Coriavadhal aen Fidhail was kind enough to send us a warning before he put a bounty on your head for more than some countries see in a year, so until his temper cools, you’re grounded.” </p><p>Vesemir stares. “<em>What</em>? Why’s he done that? Did he say?” </p><p>“Vesemir,” Roran says, rubbing his forehead. He tends to do that a lot when Vesemir’s around. “You can’t be serious. What did you <em>think</em> would happen when you challenged him to a sparring match, won, and then fucked his son?” </p><p>Vesemir blinks. “I mean there didn’t seem to be any hard feelings? It wasn’t like I didn’t sleep with Coriavadhal too, and he didn’t exactly go away unsatisfied. Besides, you haven’t seen the son. He’s gorgeous.” </p><p>Gethin covers his face in his hands and, very quietly, screams. Barmin, who is clearly having the time of his life, sits back and grins. Roran looks physically pained. </p><p>“And then there’s this matter with the Lyrian revolution,” Mattias says, “and we’re going to disregard your, ah, involvement with the Queen as I was given to understanding that the King was aware of the situation-” </p><p>“Well <em>yeah</em>, he walked in on us twice, he just didn’t give a shit because there’s a complete lack of bastards possible what with me being sterile,” Vesemir says, leaning back in his chair. “Nice guy. Bit weird, though. He was always stammering when he talked to me but he was fine with everyone else. I think he might have been a little intimidated, which was funny, but he’s nice. Good to his people. Fantastic swordsman, he taught me a lot of new things- I watched him take off three heads in a single swing and he’s only human.”</p><p>Gethin screams again. </p><p>“Regardless,” Mattias says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You were part of the forces that split new Lyria out of the Sodden Empire, and people have noticed. There are some who have sent messages to us asking if we have turned mercenary for hire, or if you’re just an anomaly. And you <em>must</em> be an anomaly.” </p><p>“The people were starving-” </p><p>“The people,” Giderung interrupts, his deep voice a bass rumble, “are the problem. What will happen if they stop seeing us as hunters, and instead as soldiers, possibly in the employ of kings who would cut them down? We are made to slay monsters, Vesemir of Dol Angra, not men. In our slaying of monsters men may also fall, but we cannot be there to hunt them down. We cannot meddle in the affairs of politics and more than we are forced to. What will happen when your Queen comes to ask you for aid again, and you must choose between Kaer Morhen’s children and a pretty face? Because if they turn on us in revenge for not doing the bidding of the rich and powerful, and people still may, one day, it will not just be Witchers on the path that suffer. It will be the boys. You work for the <em>people</em>, not for kings.” </p><p>Vesemir looked at the table, running his fingers over the grain of the wood. “So I should have let them starve?” </p><p>“No,” Gethin sighs, finally taking his hands from his face. “No, Vesemir, you should have helped in ways that could be denied. A Witcher goes everywhere, sees everything. You could have offered information. You could have hunted necrophages that would prey on the soldiers. There are ways to assuage your frustrations that aren’t being on the front lines of battle, in full view of the world, making a statement.”</p><p>Vesemir frowns, but it does seem reasonable. </p><p>“What happens,” Mattias says gently, “when one of your brothers is hungry, and someone offers a contract on a human? An assassination. And what happens when they refuse, but someone tells them of their brother who was cutting down soldiers? Resolve weakens. They have to make a choice. I don’t want the Wolves to have to choose that. I don’t want us to be murderers.” </p><p>“I understand,” he says, subdued, and there’s a faint sigh of relief around the table. He looks up, mulish. “But what am I supposed to do here for two years?” </p><p>There’s a set of shared looks, and finally old Niko says, “Killian passed a month ago. It was unexpected, but it means we don’t have a teacher for sword instruction for the older cohort. That will be your job.” </p><p>Vesemir stares. “I’m <em>teaching</em>? You can’t be serious.” </p><p>“You’re one of the best,” young Rennes says, relaxing back in his chair. “And it’ll be good for you to learn some humility, young Wolf.” </p><p>“Fuck you.” </p><p>“You could only be so lucky, boy.” </p><p>Vesemir makes a rude gesture, which gets him slapped upside the head by a chuckling Giderung, but the deed is done. Two years of teaching, and then he’ll be back on the Path. He can do that. They’re just teenagers, anyway, and it’s not like teaching is going to be that much fun or fulfilling or anything like that. They introduce him as the new fencing instructor the next day, and he stares down a group of 8 gangly, awkward young Witchers with big gold eyes and uncertain sword grips. </p><p>“Well,” he says, as they stare back. This is going to be awful. “Let’s get to it, then.”</p><p>Three years later, Vesemir comes back from a year on the Path, and asks to be placed back as a teacher again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Fire (Geralt/Yennefer/Jaskier, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A sleepless night has Geralt and Yennefer reflecting on fire, Sodden Hill, and the prices paid.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“There is a price for magic on a large scale,” Yennefer says into the darkness. It’s late. It’s very late. </p><p>Geralt reluctantly cracks an eye open. Neither of them have been sleeping, but they’ve been pretending. “I’m aware.” </p><p>“You’re not,” Yennefer says tartly, and rolls over in their bed to press her face into his chest. On the other side of the bed, Jaskier makes a faint noise, shifting in his sleep. They both wait to see if he’ll wake, but he stays put, snoring slightly. Yennefer sighs, slinging an arm over his waist and settling in close against him. </p><p>Geralt decides to bite, despite the late hour. He knows, with grim resignation, that his attempts at sleep have been for naught. It happens sometimes. He’ll meditate during the day to do his best at fixing what he’s lost. “What’s on your mind, Yenn?” </p><p>Yennefer doesn’t look at him. “Fire.” </p><p>Fire. </p><p>Sodden Hill. </p><p>“Ah,” Geralt says, getting the shape, if not the specifications, of what this means. </p><p>“I thought I knew pain, before that. But I didn’t. Not in the least.” Her fingers play along his back, quiet and soothing. “I didn’t like finding that about myself. I didn’t like finding that about Chaos. Fringilla, when we were very young, she learned it early. She pulled from herself, and her hand withered and died. Tissaia fixed it, but it still happened. She still suffered. She dealt with that pain. I learned different kinds of pain, not the cost of magic. The fire… it came through me and it wanted. It wanted so much to consume, it was the <em>soul</em> of what a fire is. There was nothing to ignite until it reached the air out of my hands, and I felt the air itself catch fire.”</p><p>She takes a moment to breathe. Geralt reaches up to smooth her hair back. </p><p>“It was everywhere, and I was everywhere,” she says, seeing something he never will. “Rushing along. I felt its hunger. It doesn’t live without something to eat, and it found the bodies and ate them, and the trees, and the grasses. Small animals. So many things. I was so <em>hungry</em>, and furious, and it fed on that too. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget how it felt to have it eating my rage.” </p><p>Geralt hums, kissing the top of her head. “Should you forget?” </p><p>“No,” she says, taking a shaking breath. “No. I should never forget that. The price was pain, and death, and feeling lives go. I’ve killed plenty, but this was… this was different.” </p><p>Geralt sighs. “A hard way to learn pain.” </p><p>“I imagine you learned pain early, too,” she says, subdued. </p><p>“In a sense,” he said. “Not pain like that. Loss, yes. Violence, yes. But the scale? Never.” </p><p>Yennefer shifts, pulling away to roll onto her back while keeping herself pressed against his chest. “I’ve no desire to learn Goetia or necromancy, and I have no desire to mess with the magic of mutations. But fire… the fire was something. A nightmare. A glory. It showed me that I’ve barely scratched the surface of what I can do, and yet…” She pauses, finding his hand to take it. “I let myself be selfish, all the time. I deserve selfishness. But now I wonder what I could have been if I made myself like Triss and learned to heal. What kind of power could I leverage then?” </p><p>Geralt hums, resting his head back on the pillow. “Do you want to heal?” </p><p>“No.” </p><p>“Then not much power,” he says simply. “Healers, the good ones, get over their drive to do good and turn it into the drive to do quality work, not advocation. But you have to want it first. You want power, you got fire.” </p><p>Jaskier stirs and they both pause. There’s a stretch, a noisy yawn, and then a sleepy, “Oh, you’re both awake. Great. I had terrible dreams.” </p><p>“About?” Yennefer says, and Jaskier rolls over so he can peer over Geralt’s back at her. </p><p>“Nothing important. Just the past. Do you want water, darling?”</p><p>Yennefer hesitates, then nods. Jaskier kisses Geralt’s shoulder before hauling himself out of bed, ghostly pale in the dark with only his nightshirt on, and vanishes out the door. Geralt sighs, rolling from his side to his back, and looks up at the ceiling with Yennefer. </p><p>“I saw some of the wreckage,” he says at last. “I went to the battle field last year. It’s growing back, in places, but there’s so much of it that was still black. Dark as could be. I can imagine, but I can’t. You, there. Dark and glorious. You leveled an army. You leveled a forest. All for a little thanks and because it was right, to keep freedom where it could be kept, even if the north is… well. It’s the North. You did what you had to, and you did it well, and now you know the price that needed paying for that.” </p><p>Yennefer squeezes his hand, silent. They lay there, side by side, still as the figures on tombs until Jaskier returns with cold water in a metal pail with a ladle to drink it out of. Yennefer sits up, hair loose and cascading over her shoulders, the clinging soft shift she wears worn to silk softness. For once Jaskier says nothing, just gives her water. The moonlight coming through the window casts them both in highlights. Jaskier looks unnatural in the light, the silver making his pale skin seem to glow and his hair turn strange. Yennefer seems painted with it, the light spilling over her soft brown skin and turning her to something beyond compare, impossible and wonderful. Geralt watches her bend to sip at water turned silver with captured stars in the depth, Jaskier’s head bent to echo her. </p><p>There is always a price, he knows. For fire. For love. For caring. </p><p>Jaskier offers him water, and Geralt closes his eyes as he drinks. The cool water soothes his throat. Drops fall from the ladle, falling to heated skin. </p><p>The price is worth paying, for these.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Found (Geralt, M, Hunt #2)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Found: Geralt finds the real reason he's being hunted, and makes a deal with the hunt's intended victims. (Part 2 of Hunt)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Suspense, mild description of rotted and decaying corpses.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Okadren river is bitter cold, fat with winter runoff from the mountains, and Geralt’s feet went cold the second he took his first step into her rush. He made it almost halfway across before a wave came rushing down and slammed him down, sending him rattling down the rapids and crashing against every rock along the way. Only his armor saves him, but it weighs him down and he’s dragged under for just long enough for his lungs to start screaming, and when he manages to thrash to the surface he only gets the one gasp of air before he’s dragged under one more. The river is shallow but fast running, rushing his body down along. The sharp rocks ram his sides, sending him back to the surface for a few more gasps of air. </p><p>He’s slammed against a sandy bank and manages to roll free from the water and cling to the rotting roots of a downed tree trunk until his breath has returned. Slowly, he drags his legs out of the ice water. Every pebble and boulder that met his skin has left a gift at the introduction, and his legs tremble as he stumbles further up the little bank.</p><p>“Ouch,” he mutters, and looks around. He’s been deposited in a small cove off of the river, a collapsed wall leading up to a trail, clearly well worn by forest creatures coming to drink. The little cove stinks of fish, and Geralt looks back at the river. Across the other side against a severe cliff face is the forest he came from, and in the distance… </p><p>Hounds. Still hunting him. </p><p>He looks back at the trail leading up into the dark trees, and sighs. </p><p>It’s a scramble to get his body up the narrow trail, and he slips several times and curses the air blue. When he’s finally free from the clay that makes up the cliff face and trail, he finds himself at the edge of the other half of the forest. Here, as further up the river, there are brambles in a near protective ring tight to the trees. But the path leads directly into it, and Geralt isn’t a fool.</p><p>At first glance, certainly, it is a trail for animals. But on second… </p><p>It’s too regular. Too smooth. This is not <em>just</em> an animal trail. </p><p>He sighs. He hates not knowing what he’s going to find.</p><p>The sound of the world seems to cut away as soon as Geralt clambers through the brambles into the old, waiting heart of the forest. The rushing of water can still be heard, a few fragments of birdsong, but the air is still. This place is old. There’s a weight to each step he takes, and Geralt finds himself looking at his feat to be certain not to crush any plants. Strange flowers grow at the edge of the path, and he pauses to bend and examine them, not touching. They look like some sort of miniature poppy, deep red with a black core and black stamens. He frowns, standing, and continues down the trail. </p><p>The deep he goes, the thicker the poppies grow. They slowly seep out into the trees, until eventually among the dark trunks all he sees is a sea of deep red. The silence grows with the poppies, and the trail grows narrow. He steps one foot in front of the other, balancing carefully, until at last the trail turns a bit, winding up a slight rise. </p><p>There, in a circle of trees, is another circle of standing stones. The poppies stop abruptly, leaving an open circle of only wild grasses around the stones. Within the center of the stones is a huddle of rags and rot.</p><p>He’s found the Lord’s prey. </p><p>The standing stones have carvings wrapping around them, distubed by accumulated lichen. The bodies in the center are in various states of decay, all of them stinking and fetid. He covers his nose, wincing when he realizes that someone’s cut channels in the center wheel stone for the blood to drain out and feed into pools at the base of the stones. That looks new, and crudely done. There’s a feverish look to the cuts in the stone. </p><p>“Not good,” he mutters, looking around the stones. They remain implacable, jutting up towards the canopy. </p><p>Geralt sighs. </p><p>“Well, here goes,” he mutters, and steps into the circle. </p><p>The wind rustles, fussing, but he examines the body on top of the mess. </p><p>His heart sinks when he finds that it really is the Bear, Bertilak. His eyes are thankfully closed, and Geralt takes the medallion from around the rot swollen neck. The Cat is below him, head bashed in but face still clear and he once must have been a handsome fellow. Geralt takes his medallion too. He has no love for the Cats, but someone might have loved this one. He can take the medallion to the Dyn Marv. He’ll bury Bertilak’s somewhere. The others are rotted or bones beyond recognition, and a flash of pure rage rushes through him as he looks at them. </p><p>He turns his attention to the divots in front of the standing stones, and then looks at the stones themselves again. The wind rises as he straightens, and he takes a deep breath. He has the shape of it now. They may as well come out. </p><p>He turns, and looks to the woods.</p><p>From out of the depths of the wood steps a massive stag double Geralt’s size made of rich colored hardwood, blood dripping from its mouth, massive razor sharp antlers of wood dripping with a festooned glory of flowers and moss. The Heart of the Forest, shaped to be a hart. Poetic. </p><p>“Hail, Heart of the Forest,” he says, and the Heart huffs a gust of rotting breath that rattles the branches of the trees. Geralt doesn’t flinch. “Where is your other half?” </p><p>The Heart looks up, and Geralt follows the gaze to find a vague bubble of water winding through the canopy. The water is muddy and clear at turns, enough to drown in, and it clings to the bark of the old growth trees as it drips between the branches. It drops when it realizes he’s seen it, falling with a splash to the ground and reforming into a vague, humanoid shape. Pine needles and bark float in the vague form.</p><p>“You must be the river Okadren,” Geralt says, bowing a little. Okadren nods back. “You wanted me to see this?” </p><p>“<em>Remove</em>,” Okadren hisses to him. “Fix it.” </p><p>“I can fix it for now, but it will come back. The root of the problem must be fixed. The humans will continue to die.”</p><p>Okadren swirls around The Heart, thrashing in irritation. It splashes as it does, the water droplets soaking into the moss around the circle of stones. The Heart’s wood-knot eyes focus intently on him, and Geralt meets it easily. The Heart is sick, not murderous- It’s no leshen hungering for blood. It doesn’t want blood at all. </p><p>“What care we?” it burbles, water sinking into The Heart’s wooden skin. “Humans are always dying. Just don’t want the blood here.” </p><p>“Not like this,” Geralt insists, looking up at the towering pair. “The one who brought these ones <em>hunts</em> others. He’s stopped hunting humans, and changed to Witchers. Soon, he’ll change to beings like you. Maybe gods, eventually. He wants to draw you out, defile you and The Heart.” </p><p>Okadren hisses river spray, and The Heart sighs an enraged wind. </p><p>Geralt looks down at the bodies. “I will move these, burn them, but they have been used for a spell. A powerful one, meant to draw you out in time. I can’t break this alone. The caster has to die here.” </p><p>“Bring him,” Okadren spits in river rock tumbles. “We kill. Burn the bodies, we drown the killer.”</p><p>The Heart nods, and with a voice made from the howl of wind in the night says, “We <em>hunt back</em>.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Snow (Jaskier, G)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>14 year old Julian flees Lettenhove in a snowstorm, and takes his first steps into becoming Jaskier.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He leaves the house in a snowstorm. It takes planning, careful planning, but he waits and listens and learns, and when the winds come howling and his father growls frustration and locks himself up in his room, Julian takes his chances. </p>
<p>It’s a late winter storm, the kind likely to be worn away by the early grasp of spring in short order. He has a purse enough to get him to Oxenfurt, so long as he stretches it, and he has his horse, his camping gear (purloined from around the manor, and checked by the servants), and his clothes ready to go. Marta helps him slip through the kitchens, Uther and Ianto looking the other way as he passes them into the stables. Kelder is silent as he helps him tack up the rugged, shaggy pony that Julian gave him the money to buy a week ago. He’s tall for a pony, but Julian’s tall for a 14 year old boy. They’ll suit each other nicely. </p>
<p>Julian gets his gear tied to the saddle. It’s no pleasure riding saddle, with little in the way of harness straps. No, this is a Kaedweni saddle, made for long journeys and covered in clever leather ties to hold his things in place. There’s even padding on it. </p>
<p>When he’s mounted up, Kelder touches his leg. </p>
<p>“You remember the path?” he asks, voice soft. “You have the map?”</p>
<p>“I do,” Julian says, patting his coat front. </p>
<p>“Good. I have made arrangements with my cousin at the inn in Burrigan, tonight. After that, you are on your own.” Kelder fusses with a strap, frowning. “I am begging you to mind yourself carefully, Julian.” </p>
<p>“I will,” Julian promises, grabbing his hand to squeeze it. “I can never repay you all for this.” </p>
<p>“Ach,” Kelder says, shaking his head and giving him a tremulous smile. “Write a song about a young lord gone to seek his fortune and all who love him helping him along. We’ll know it and hear it.” </p>
<p>Julian swallows the lump in his throat. He won’t see them again, he knows. They’re all taking an enormous risk, helping him at all. It’s possible they might be killed for this, and they all know and are helping him anyway. </p>
<p>“I will write you the best song in all the world,” he promises, voice a little thick with holding back a sob. “I promise.” </p>
<p>“Good lad.” Kelder holds open his arms, and Julian leans down to hug him. Kelder hugs tight, and in it is all the hopes and prayers of the people who’ve brought him up and carried him this far. He holds all of Lettenhove, and Julian feels tears sting his eyes as he pulls back. He sniffles and wipes them away, pulling up the hood on his cloak. Kelder clears his throat, and pats his leg. “Good luck, Jaskier.” </p>
<p>He opens the barn door to the whirling snow, not as severe as a blizzard but certainly biting. Julian nudges the pony forward, and they trot out into the grim afternoon storm. Thankfully there’s enough light, and he crosses the drawbridge at a fast clip. The guards on duty studiously ignore him, as planned. He follows the wind of the ridge that leads up to Lettenhove Reach down into the township, and rides through. A few children wave, tucked up against their mothers skirts in doorways, and a few nod to him from windows. No one dares call out to him. He can never have been there. He is invisible. </p>
<p>The road leads him out through a wood, and he follows it until he comes to the marker. He turns the pony off of the road and into the forest. A small bundle of twigs has been tied to a tree, and he follows the bundles. Inside the forest, sheltered by the branches, it’s not quite so bad. There are some pines that have kept their green bows, keeping the worst off of him, but it’s still bitter cold. He’s grateful for his wool. He winds through the trees and eventually comes out on a new road. Someone will come and collect the twig bundles to cover his trail. </p>
<p>The snow has eased a little, but it’s still a distance to go. He keeps the pony at a walk to save his strength and hers, and they make their way through the twists and winds of the countryside until they finally reach a small cluster of houses. </p>
<p>Burrigan is barely a town, and it’s in the opposite direction of Oxenfurt. Julian plans to ride far to the north and then swing back down to cover his tracks. His father will anticipate him bolting in a straight shot, and if he’s lucky, he’ll be there and gone from Oxenfurt before Julian even arrives. There’s a small inn, however, and Kelder’s cousin is indeed waiting when Jaskier appears in his doorway. </p>
<p>“Jaskier, I presume,” the man says from across the bar when Julian stumbles in with his saddlebags and lute case. He certainly looks like Kelder, broad shouldered and grizzled, and his smile is just as kind. “Warm yourself by the fire, I’ll see to the pony.” </p>
<p>“Thank you,” Julian manages between shattering teeth. The room is crowded with Burrigan’s main occupants and those from surrounding areas, here for a drink and a night with friends, it’s noisy as can be. He stumbles to the roaring blaze to dry out, sitting down beside a pair of lanky hounds dozing. They lift their heads to sniff him, and he politely offers them his hands. They sniff politely, tails thumping, and shift a little to settle around him. He strokes their heads after a glance to their master, an elderly huntsman, who nods. He feels warmer already. </p>
<p>“Here, lad,” someone said, and he looked up to see a kindly lady looking down at him. “What’s that instrument you’ve got? A lute?” </p>
<p>“It is,” he says, uncertain what she wants. </p>
<p>“Would you play for us, then?” </p>
<p>For a moment, he can barely breathe. </p>
<p>How long has it been, since someone asked for that? Since someone wanted his sound? How many years has it been since he could sing freely to any, and not be scolded? </p>
<p>“Certainly,” he chokes out. “Just… let my fingers warm a little more.” </p>
<p>“Of course! No rush.” </p>
<p>Kelder’s cousin sidles through the crowd. “Jaskier, your pony’s stabled. I can show you where you’ll sleep, if you’d like?” </p>
<p>Julian glances at the fire, and the hound who’s put his head on his knee. “I promised I’d play, if that’s alright?” </p>
<p>“Oh! Certainly, I’d be glad of it,” the cousin says, pleased. “Find me when you need your place.” </p>
<p>“I will.” </p>
<p>One of the others looks around at him, curious. “Jaskier, then? That’s how you’re called?” </p>
<p>No, not really. It was a childhood nickname given to him by his friends in Lettenhove, when he was still allowed to play with him. They called him that for his cheer, and at the time his extreme love of everything yellow. Now he favors blues, but for most of his childhood he gravitated to yellows. When he was sent to the temple school he became Julian, putting Jaskier away. But the servants had always called him Jaskier privately, and Kelder had given it as his name to his cousin. And… well. </p>
<p>Would it be so bad, to be Jaskier? To remember those sunny afternoons and name himself for golden poison?</p>
<p>Jaskier the bard. </p>
<p>“Yes,” he says, opening the case for his lute and strumming the first few notes of a drinking song that he learned by ear. Heads turn, and the hound huffs against his knee, tail thumping on the floor. He smiles. “I’m Jaskier.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chamomile (QP!Eskel&Geralt, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Geralt finds Eskel in the aftermath of the Chamomile Incident, and has emotions about it.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Eskel and Geralt are queerplatonic and no you can't change my mind.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s rare for Eskel to meet up with anyone on the path. Once, younger Witchers would come along to shadow him and learn that way, but it’s been a long time since there were any young Witchers who needed teaching. For most of the year he rides alone, though sometimes he finds himself acting as an escort for caravans or nobles off to be wed. That, he doesn’t mind, because what usually happens is someone pulls him to the side awkwardly ask him to take care of their child, wink wink nudge nudge. Which means, mostly, that he has a very frank talk about sex with a scared and sheltered noble, and then helps them decide if they’re going to be “set upon by bandits” and “killed in the heat of battle” and dropped off at a different city. Generally the answer is no, but he’s had a few say yes. </p><p>Regardless, he’s mostly alone, which is why it’s a little startling to come back from bathing in a river to find Geralt poking moodily at a campfire in the middle of goddamn Rivia. </p><p>“Uh,” Eskel says, startled. Geralt rarely comes through Rivia, because while he’s got a good fake accent, it is still fake and the people know it. “Hi?” </p><p>Geralt gets up, looking a little lost, and Eskel walks over to hug him. Geralt’s stiff in his arms for a moment before he slumps, arms coming up to hold him tight and to bury his face against his shoulder. Eskel lets his hand move up to cradle the back of Geralt’s head, and Geralt heaves a shaking sigh of relief. Eskel rests their heads together, waiting. There’s no point pushing Geralt. He’ll talk or he won’t. </p><p>Geralt stands there with him for a good five minutes before pulling away and gesturing vaguely at the world, mouth moving a few times before he croaks out, “Needed you.” </p><p>Which is an alarming thing to hear, from one such as Geralt of Rivia. Eskel lets his hand stay resting on the back of Geralt’s neck, schooling his expression. “Well, I’m here.” </p><p>Geralt smiles, tight and tense, but it’s better than it was. </p><p>Eskel settles with his back to a log and Geralt goes down with him, pressing up against his side and throwing an arm over his waist before shoving his face against his chest. Eskel absently scratches through his hair, tugging it free of its tail so it falls loose. Geralt relaxes a little more, but Eskel lets the silence stay. Scorpion and Roach are grazing together, Scorpion with hobbles on because he has more legs than sense at times, and the fire is crackling. It’s late afternoon, just coming towards dusk, and he feels… not calm. But comfortable. Geralt is here, his horse is safe, and he has some decent food waiting in his bags. </p><p>“The bard,” Geralt says at last.</p><p>“Ah, the young one that’s been running around singing songs about you?” Eskel says, knowing full well that it’s <em>that</em> bard.</p><p>“Yeah. I think that he’s… something.” </p><p>Eskel pauses, considering. </p><p>They’re... something. No real words for it, really, but Geralt is his and he is Geralt’s, a centerpiece of his heart. Closer than friends, a part of a brotherhood but not brothers themselves. Something more. Something different. It’s complicated. Eskel doesn’t want for romance like Geralt does, never mind sex. He can take or leave either. Geralt can’t. His heart is lonely, but Eskel fills in all the spaces he can. They’re just… something. </p><p>“Something like me?” he asks, uncertain how he feels about that.</p><p>“No,” Geralt says immediately, and a little knot eases in his chest. “I… He… <em>Chamomile.</em>” </p><p>Eskel blinks, scritching at Geralt’s scalp. “You’re going to have to give me more than that, Geralt, because I have no idea what that means.” </p><p>Geralt groans, thumping his head against Eskel’s chest a couple times before taking a deep breath and grinding out, “I got hurt. Pulled muscles in my ass.” </p><p>“First of all, hilarious. Do go on,” Eskel says, grinning, and yelps as Geralt jabs him in the kidneys. “Ow, fuck.” </p><p>“Shut up,” Geralt groans, and to Eskel’s delight, he’s turned slightly pink. “I only had that chamomile oil and everything hurt and so I had him. You know. Massage the worst of it out. And didn’t move much for the next few days.” </p><p>“Holy shit,” Eskel wheezes, starting to laugh. “You <em>didn’t</em>.” </p><p>“I was in pain!” </p><p>Eskel cackles, leaning back on the log as he laughs. Geralt pouts at him, but even his mouth is starting to twitch. Eskel holds out his arms and Geralt settles back into them, nestling against his chest and relaxing. Eskel squeezes him, feeling unbelievably fond. </p><p>“Oh, wolf, you’re dumb as bricks sometimes,” he says, teasing and fond. Geralt grumbles incoherently. “So you’ve gone and caught feelings for him. He’s an adult, Geralt, he can make his own choices.” </p><p>“He’s <em>twenty-seven.</em>” </p><p>“And a bard. Do you think he <em>hasn’t</em> made a move on someone your age already, just for the sheer novelty of it?” Geralt looks up at him in horror and Eskel laughs, bending to kiss his forehead. “I tease, I tease. But he’s an adult, Geralt, with full knowledge of who and what you are. Take him to bed or don’t, but he can make that choice. And yes, he’s human, and mortal, and fragile. But you’re mortal too. We could die any day, and we both know that. So go for it, if you’d like.” </p><p>Geralt hums, vaguely distressed, and settles against him again. “...Dunno if I’d like to.” </p><p>“Yeah?” </p><p>Geralt grimaces, and Eskel rubs his back to soothe him. “I don’t… I don’t know.” </p><p>“Don’t have to know right now. You have plenty of time to think about it.” Eskel ruffles his hair. “I’ve got some of that spiced jerky from Mahakam in my saddlebags, and actual bread and some zucchini to go with it. Want to eat it with me?” </p><p>Geralt’s eyes light up, and he levers himself up once Geralt’s rolled off to go and grab the food. They eat together and talk about their latest hunts, and when they’ve curled up under the same blanket together Eskel feels his heart settle. It’s good to have Geralt close, snoring faintly already. Their heartbeats even out to the same steady thumping rhythm, and he breathes in the night air. </p><p>Jaskier, huh? </p><p>He smiles. It’ll be fun to see how this progresses. And with that, he closes his eyes to sleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Destiny (Geralt/Jaskier, pre-relationship, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jaskier isn't Geralt's destiny. But does that even matter, anyway?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW for alcohol abuse (Jaskier spends most of two months drunk, not in detail.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After Cintra, Jaskier can’t be around Geralt. </p><p>He could, technically. But at the same time, he can’t. He just keeps seeing Geralt, fear and dismay flicking through his eyes as he looks down at Pavetta. And Geralt has been short with him, tense, and he’s unwilling to put up with that nonsense. So he leaves a note and leaves in the night and leaves Cintra all together, making his way up the Continent and back towards the familiar territories of Redania and Temeria, and that’s when he once again meets the Countess de Stael. </p><p>She approaches him after he’s finished singing for his supper, pretty still for her middle age, and she grabs him by the chin and examines him thoroughly. </p><p>“I’m in need of a bard,” she says at last, letting him go. It’s as if they’ve never met at all, but her eyes are soft when she looks at him. “You’ll do.” </p><p>And, well. It’s not like he has anything on, at the moment. </p><p>The de Stael estate is massive and sprawling, with a thousand and one nooks and crannies to arrange himself in an ornamental fashion and play. He gets a frankly massive amount of composing done while under her thumb, as he did before. Virginia de Stael is a master of her craft, and her craft is that of muse and poet. She hosts readings and critiques, is unafraid to tell him his choices are terrible, and makes him question his lyrics until they’re tight as ticks and wickedly catchy. She takes him to bed when she’s bored, dresses him in finery, and generally treats him as an ornament in her home. In the crisp early autumn Jaskier finds himself in the portion of the estate where the trees are turning colors and the white columned gazebo is at its most beautiful. </p><p>He’s plucking out an older tune, one he intended for a song about Geralt but never used, when Virginia approaches. Her skirts swish as she goes, the leaves rustling along under the fine cotton sateen, and he smiles at her. </p><p>“My Lady.” </p><p>“Jaskier.” </p><p>She arranges herself on the chaise lounge set out in the gazebo for this purpose, and considers him. He plucks a complicated little tune, not singing, and waits. </p><p>At last, she says, “Geralt of Rivia.” </p><p>“We are in fact acquainted,” Jaskier agrees, not stopping his plucking. She takes a dim view of people who can’t play and speak at the same time. </p><p>Virginia hums, and taps long fingers on the seat of the chaise for a moment before saying, “Explain to me why you haven’t gone running off to play with him, Jaskier. You wouldn’t shut up about him when we first met, after your first little exciting sojourn in the wilds.” </p><p>Jaskier looks down at his lute, ostensibly to check fingering he’s mastered years ago, and says, “Because I’m not his Destiny, my lady. And I am in fact, a bit of an ass, and I know full well that I will lose my temper at him while he works out what Destiny means to him if he’s short with me, and we were well on our way to a very loud fight when I left. It’s best we spend some time apart.”</p><p>Virginia props her chin on her hand, those wonderful green eyes he’s never stopped loving fixing him in place. “Then he has a Destiny, with all the capital letters attached?” </p><p>“My lady, could you doubt it?” Jaskier smiles at her. “He’s a Witcher, after all. He’s bound to have some sort of magical something or other involved with his life.” His smile fades a little. “I’m a bard- a good bard, and thank you for hammering me into that - but a bard only. I’m not a Witcher, or a sorcerer, or even a warrior. No fabled Destiny for me, let alone one with him.”  </p><p>Virginia gracefully inclines her head in agreement. “So you are not his Destiny. What of it?” </p><p>“What of it indeed,” he muses, and tries a tricky chord progression. </p><p>“Up a fifth,” she says, and he corrects himself. “I’m not much inclined to care what Destiny says. If I have one, it’ll come to me. But that doesn’t mean we can’t make our choices in the meantime.” </p><p>Jaskier glances at her. “Are you asking me to choose between the two of you, my lady?” </p><p>Virginia flicks her hand, nose wrinkling. “Absolutely not, foolish boy. I’ll tire of you before a year has passed and I am fully aware of this. We are not to be, merely momentary loves before we spin away from each other. I know who you’ll choose, and who I’ll choose, and that will be the end of it. I am only asking you to recognize that regardless of Destiny, he has choices he can make too.” </p><p>She rises from the chaise, holding out an imperious hand, and Jaskier hops down from the gazebo rail to take it. </p><p>He stays in her bed that night, and many nights on. </p><p>She brings him a bottle of champagne when they receive the news that Pavetta of Cintra has given birth to a beautiful young girl on Belleteyn, and Jaskier gets very drunk indeed as he turns <em>Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, daughter of Lord Duny of Urchenwald and Princess Pavetta, Child of Geralt of Rivia</em> over in his head. He doesn’t play for a week. Destiny has arrived in the world, kicking and screaming. </p><p>Virginia de Stael kicks him out at the start of June with a full purse and a large eyeroll, which is probably wise considering he’s managed to work his way through a decent portion of the wine cellar but does not fill him with an overwhelming sense of well being for mankind as a whole. He wanders his way to an acceptable inn at a town near the banks of the Pontar. He drinks a great deal, sings only a little, and takes to spending his afternoons wandering the area. </p><p>And then… </p><p>“Witcher’s come to town,” the alderman says to the barkeep as Jaskier works his way through some rather shitty beer. “Geralt’s his name. Finally dealt with that bloody wraith in the far north pasture. Said he’s staying in the area for a bit, has some business to attend to. I don’t like it, but what can you do, he’s a fuck off massive Witcher!” </p><p>And, well. Destiny can wait. Jaskier has a conversation about choice to have with someone. </p><p>He fills up his flask on the way out in the morning, because life’s just easier like that these days, and wanders on down the road. He’ll find Geralt eventually. He always does. </p><p>Later the next day, sitting watching a collapsed building, he has the sinking suspicion that Destiny has decided to personally fuck him and his wants over once again. Chiredean offers him a flask. </p><p>He declines, sighing, and gets to his feet. </p><p>Oh well. Even if Geralt won’t choose to be his, he can choose to be Geralt’s. At least for a time. </p><p>He makes his way back to the inn to collect his things and settle his bill, and by the time Geralt’s back to his campsite Jaskier’s there, waiting. Geralt pulls Roach to a halt, looking down at him. Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him, fingers still moving. Geralt looks almost embarrassed, but Jaskier says nothing. It’s not his business, really. Geralt is who he is, and he has never once wanted to control him or make him something else. They are who they are, a decade of knowing and care behind them, and decades more to go. </p><p>Something flashes across Geralt’s face, almost too fast to see. Pain, perhaps. And understanding. A realization. </p><p>Jaskier plucks the opening chords to “Toss a Coin.” </p><p>“Anywhere you want to go?” Geralt says at last. </p><p>Jaskier considers. “Always wanted to see Mahakam.” </p><p>“Mahakam, then,” Geralt says with a nod, and that’s good enough. </p><p>They’re not each other’s Destiny. Geralt is made for grander things than a bard who wears his heart on his sleeve. But perhaps they can be a choice, for better or worse. Perhaps they can be something new.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Teeth (Geralt & Jaskier, violence, M)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jaskier's forced to kill in self defense for the first time. Geralt takes care of him after, uncovering some of his bard's history along the way.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: killing in self defense, blood, violence, violence against children (past), supremely messed up family dynamics, discussion of youth suicide in the name of familial honor, cultural dismissal of child life, discussion of mouth related trauma (none happens, discussion only)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The white of Jaskier’s teeth has been replaced with watered down red. Most of the rest of him is painted red as well when Geralt heaves the body off of him, and Jaskier stares up at him with big, shocked eyes. </p><p>They were set upon by six decent sized men as they were setting up camp for the afternoon. Geralt was out of his armor, and cursed himself for it as he took on five and saw them dead in short order. The sixth had gone for Jaskier. It was only when he turned to see the body collapsed on top of Jaskier, both of them slumped against a log, that the first burn of true alarm had cut through him. </p><p>Jaskier killed him, though, and is now drenched in the would-be bandit’s blood from collar to thighs. There’s a blade in his hands. </p><p>It’s a very professional stabbing. Straight into the stomach and yanked up, sharp and efficient, just the way that Geralt guts deer, pulled out and then used to slit the throat for a fast bleed out and destroyed windpipe. The man had died near instantly. Geralt’s frankly rather impressed. The blade he pries from Jaskier’s hand is no ladies' stiletto, either. It’s a true Keracki virtue knife, embossed with the sigil of a noble house. The blade is long for a personal knife and viciously sharp, with a curve like a scimitar and a razor sharp cutout curve meant for slitting the bearers own throat. The runes on the blade are the ancient pictographs in Old Keracki for humility, piety, and sanctity, the traditional wishes for noble children in Kerack. </p><p>Geralt stares at the knife for a moment, baffled at why Jaskier would have such a blade, before setting it aside and carefully taking Jaskier’s face in his hands. Jaskier stares at him, eyes wide, but his pupils are reacting to the light properly. </p><p>“What day is it?” </p><p>“Ah… Five days before the Solstice,” Jaskier says, which is right. </p><p>“What town did we just come from?” </p><p>“Weird Toussainti name in the middle of fucking Temeria...Beaumontain?” </p><p>“Who’s the current king in Redania?” </p><p>Jaskier grimaces. “Ugh, Visimir the second.” </p><p>Geralt sighs in relief. No major head trauma then, but he grabs his water flask. “Swish some to clean out your mouth and let me look at your teeth.” </p><p>Jaskier obediently does, spitting out bloody water. Geralt gently pries his mouth open and pulls Igni to his fingertips for a bit more light. He sighs with relief when he sees that all of Jaskier’s teeth seem to be in order, only the cheek cut from a backhand running into them. Hopefully it won't bruise. “Any of them feel loose?” </p><p>Jaskier tests them with his tongue, Geralt still holding his mouth open. “Uh-uh.” </p><p>“Good.” Geralt lets him close his mouth, his heart rate slowing back to its usual crawl. Jaskier is <em>painfully</em> young, and losing permanent teeth is never good for humans. Jaskier blinks up at him, still covered in blood, and starts to shake. It’s faint, but there, and Geralt realizes with a start that, oh. Huh. Jaskier… probably hasn’t ever killed a human before. Come to that, he’d been squeamish about hunting when they first started traveling together. </p><p>Geralt’s managed to train the squeamishness about where food comes from out of him. Jaskier’s always been very good at kitchen work like skinning and cooking, but he hadn’t liked hunting until Geralt had taught him how to be merciful with it. </p><p>This… this was not a rabbit. This was a human being who’d wanted him dead. </p><p>“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice even. “You did everything right.” </p><p>“I slit his belly,” Jaskier says, voice tight. “And then his throat.” </p><p>“And you made it fast, and as painless as possible,” Geralt says, doing his best to remember how to soothe. It helps to think of Jaskier like a monster’s victim- in a way, he is. The monster of hunger had taken these folks, and their hansa had paid the price for choosing the wrong prey. Jaskier is covered in blood, a horrible price to pay for such bullshit. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” </p><p>Jaskier shakes his head, blood soaked hand grabbing Geralt’s sleeve. “No, we have to go.” </p><p>“Why?” </p><p>He nods at the bodies, trembling harder. “They’re from town. I remember them in the crowd. We should get away.” </p><p>Fuck. That makes this much, much uglier, and their well matched teamwork suggested this hansa was used to working in the area. It’s entirely possible that they were in the habit of letting people get out of town, slaughtering them in the woods, and taking back the money of payments given to travelers for work. Not good.</p><p>“Get our gear together, I’ll deal with this mess,” Geralt says, and Jaskier scrambles to his feet, grabbing the knife with a comfortable ease of long practice. “Do <em>not</em> put that away without cleaning it.” </p><p>Jaskier winces but goes to grab Geralt’s sword cleaning gear. Geralt starts the process of laying out the bodies. He sets the six in a neat line, grimacing at the sheer amount of blood sprayed around the campsite, and closes their eyes. He also, because he is only so good a person, steals all of their coin from their purses and takes a serviceable dagger of a less conspicuous style from one of the bodies. The coin is enough for some new shirts, at the least. Given how much blood is on Jaskier’s linen he’s going to need a new one soon. And possibly pants, which, given how long his legs are, is going to be painfully expensive. </p><p>Jaskier has their gear packed and Roach saddled in record time, his blade cleaned and tucked somewhere Geralt can’t see. Geralt swings up into the saddle before hauling Jaskier up behind him. Aside from the bodies cooling on the forest floor, it’s as if they’ve never been there. </p><p>Roach isn’t happy about the weight of two fully grown men, and Geralt’s saddle certainly wasn’t built for two, but they manage and get several miles down the road before he turns off at the sound of shallow, trickling water. </p><p>There’s a creek running through the woods, slow moving and shallow, perfect for bathing. It’s very clear, a few lazy fish swimming around, and Geralt pulls out the expensive cake of soap with lily of the valley scent he’d intended to make a gift of to Eskel. Now it’s a gift for Jaskier. It makes for a strange congratulations on a first kill.</p><p>The shock is definitely starting to set in. Jaskier is shivering, but Geralt knows there’s little he can do about it for now. He helps him get the ruined shirt off, critically examining it. The blood is still damp so it might yet be saved. The blood has soaked through to Jaskier’s skin, matting the hair there, and Geralt winces in sympathy before urging him to get his boots off. The trousers are a bit more of a struggle, but he finally stands bare, shivering and pale in the growing dusk. </p><p>Geralt strips down with professional speed and chivvies them both into the water. It’s still warm from the afternoon, and he briskly gets started with the soap. Jaskier sits still, staring blankly into space for a while until Geralt gets considerably lower on his torso, and then he jerks and grabs the soap, very pink. </p><p>“If you think that you’re the first person I’ve had to bathe blood off of, you’re very wrong,” Geralt says dryly. </p><p>“Geralt, we’ve traveled together for a good four years, but we are <em>not</em> at washing-each-others-cocks territory yet, thank you <em>very</em> much.” Jaskier sticks out his tongue at him, startling a laugh out of Geralt at just how silly he looks. He looks very pleased with himself as he finishes scrubbing down. Geralt makes him fetch the blood remover solution and shows him how to wash the blood out of linen, which is very fascinating to Jaskier for some reason, and demonstrates on his own shirt first before making Jaskier do it on his. With some relief from both of them, the shirt is as good as new. The pants, however, are a lost cause. </p><p>Jaskier stays in the water as Geralt scrubs down with the soap, looking out over the creek with unseeing eyes. Now that the distraction of the shirt is gone, he’s free to think. And Geralt doesn’t like the look on his face.</p><p>“Where’s the blade from?” Geralt says, grasping at reeds in the hope of dragging his attention back to the present.</p><p>Jaskier smiles, a little bitter. “My mother had it made for me when I was 6.” </p><p>Geralt stops in his washing. “Your accent’s Redanian.” </p><p>“Father’s Redanian, Mother’s Keracki. I was raised in Kerack until I was 8, then shipped off to a temple school in Redania, where they beat literacy into me,” Jaskier says, as if this is something normal to say. “My mother was six when her sister defended the Temple of Melitele from Verso ferch Hallibel, who was the pirate king at the time. She did her duty to Melitele and Kerack and the family. She killed ten pirates with only her virtue knife before she performed the honorable sacrifice of all nobility and slit her own throat rather than be taken for ransom.” </p><p>Geralt stares. </p><p>“You’re trained to do it from when you’re little,” Jaskier says, flicking his fingers through the water. “It’s one of my earliest memories. They start you with dummies, straw ones, and teach you the movements to stab through common armor gaps. Then the belly slit. Then throats. Thighs. The major arteries, really. And then the lessons about household honor begin. It’s the greatest shame of a Keracki household to be ransomed back. Most households won’t do it. You can always have more children, is the justification. So you know your parent’s love stops when you become a commodity. You’re told to defend your virtue, and make it a quick and honorable death.” </p><p>Geralt reaches out, resting his hand on Jaskier’s bare knee. Jaskier smiles at him, tight and tired. </p><p>“Noble families, they used to save baby teeth,” Jaskier says, reaching up to touch his own jaw. “Because it used to be that pirates would pull a tooth to send as proof of life, and you would have a mage test it to be sure it came from the same person. I’ve always feared that. Losing my teeth. I used to have nightmares about it. Someone forcing my mouth open and ripping something from my skull that I could never replace, I…” He shudders, violently, and pulls his legs into his chest. “I’m glad I didn’t lose a tooth today.” </p><p>Geralt hums, rubbing his back in reassurance. </p><p>As they get their new campsite settled, Geralt lighting a bigger fire than he normally would, Jaskier dresses in one of Geralt’s older shirts and looks over at him. </p><p>“This isn't going to be the only time this happens, is it?” Jaskier asks him, subdued. </p><p>Geralt pokes at the fire with a stick, glancing up at him. He looks strange in Geralt’s black, unearthly. But then, most bards are a little unearthly to begin with. “If you keep traveling with me? You’ll see more like this. I try not to kill humans, but if I’m attacked, I don’t hesitate.” </p><p>Jaskier nods, looking down at his shirt. “Is it weird that I wasn’t sick?” </p><p>Geralt shrugs. “Might hit you later. Might be that you’re more alright with it than you expected. You cried for an hour the next day over that first deer, remember?” </p><p>Jaskier goes slightly pink. “I thought we weren’t talking about that.” </p><p>“You brought it up.” </p><p>Jaskier grumbles, but Geralt can see him settle. He puts their bedrolls together, much closer than Geralt would consider necessary, but given the day he’s had… It’s understandable. He climbs into the roll and burrows down, watching the fire. </p><p>Geralt prods an ember back into place before saying, “I’m sorry that you had to do that. I’ve grown complacent.” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>Geralt shakes his head. “I should have been faster, so you didn’t have to. I’ve plenty of blood on my hands, Jaskier, I don’t want you dirtying yours more than you have to.” </p><p>Jaskier sighs. “I can’t say I liked it,” he says after a moment’s pause. “But… I know what the Continent’s like now, Geralt. I guess… I hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I always did. I don’t want to kill. But I’ve always known in theory that I could, and now I know for sure. I don’t want to stop traveling with you, and I don’t want to pretend that I’m not grateful that I had to learn this lesson while you were here with me, to help me through it. I would have died, alone. But I didn’t. And now I know, I <em>know</em> I can do what I have to.” </p><p>Geralt tosses his stick in the fire, watching it be eaten up by the flames. “...Get some sleep, Jaskier.” </p><p>When he finishes warding the hell out of their little campsite and settles at Jaskier’s side in his bedroll, Geralt watches him in the moonlight. </p><p>He isn’t a child, anymore. No clearer marker of a man than blood on your hands, as Vesemir once dryly told him in his cups. Jaskier is an adult, and has been for some time. But this is different. This is a new step in on an uncertain path. </p><p>Geralt settles down, closing his eyes to Jaskier’s steady heartbeat and breath. He’ll do better by him next time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Hands (Yennefer/Geralt, pre-relationship Y/G/J, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Yennefer is distracted from ugly memories of the past by Geralt and Jaskier's unexpected company.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: mentions of murder by choking, PTSD episode (mild), mentioned sexual activity </p><p>At this point, Geralt and Jaskier have an open relationship.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Yennefer has been at court for all of a year, only about 19 years old, when she is called upon to commit murder. </p><p>Virfuril asks it of her offhanded, and tells her to make it look like an accident. The man offended him in court, nothing more, but for that he must die. She’s young then, and an idiot as well. She doesn’t know how to tell him no. So she does it. She makes him choke on a bone while he’s out eating. She watches the light fade from his eyes as she twists her fingers to make the bone stay stuck in his craw. He dies fast, but far too slow. </p><p>Virfuril is pleased. Yennefer pushes down her revulsion, and gets on with gathering power.  </p><p>This is what it is, to be a court mage. She is the hands of the Crown, cossetting and killing by turns, loaned out to nobility as a curiosity and a bodyguard. She hates every second that she’s treated like a prized hunting dog, and then, after Kalis and the child- </p><p>She runs. </p><p>She breaks her leash and runs, and runs, and runs. She flies free for the first time, does everything she can to keep out of the hands of people who would stuff her into a leash again or cut off the pieces of her they don’t like to fit a mold. How dare they try to make her a hunting falcon, caged until she’s allowed to fly free? How dare they? </p><p>Sometimes the past creeps up on her. </p><p>Like now. </p><p>She’s in some mid-sized backwater, and there’s a woman talking with her neighbor. She’s no court lady, her clothes are peasant stock and nothing more, but the shape of her face, the curve of her cheek, the pout of her lips- Yennefer killed her. Ages ago. When she was at court in Aedirn. She can’t tear her eyes away from this woman, who cannot be Lady Yolanda, but she’s just so <em>similar</em>, and Yennefer can feel the wet splash of blood on her hands, the alarmed gape of Yolanda’s mouth searing against her mind, the baffled and pained pleas echoing in her ears-</p><p>“Lady Yennefer!” </p><p>Yennefer jolts, turning with a spell waiting on her fingertips. She has given her name to no one in this little backwater, who- </p><p>The spell flickers and dies. </p><p>Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier the bard are coming up the street. Geralt’s as monochromatic as ever, armor a little more battered than it was when last they met but looking well overall. Jaskier is a fluttering bluebird beside him, practically dancing up to her. They look hale, though Jaskier is starting to gather crows feet at the corners of his eyes, and the smallest hint of laugh lines. Human. He’s so very human and always changing. </p><p>Is she even capable of change, anymore?</p><p>“Such a surprise to see you again!” Jaskier says, beaming at her. “What’s it been, just four months since Telemark? Are you just passing through?” </p><p>“Yes,” Yennefer says, still a little rattled. She’s started running into Geralt and Jaskier, or just Geralt, about once every four months. They have similar travel patterns, but she’s starting to wonder if it’s something more. “Just… stopped on my way elsewhere. That doublet is tragic, Jaskier, you’d be laughed out of court if you wore it.”</p><p>Jaskier huffs. “It’s <em>Redanian</em> court style, I can’t expect you to keep up with such things as an Aedirnian. And what a… unique gown you’re wearing today!” </p><p>She snorts, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please, you can do better.”</p><p>Jaskier chuckles and takes her hand in his, bending to kiss her knuckles. It’s gentle and friendly, and for some reason this hurts far more than a slap to the face. They’ve grown companionable, somehow. The sniping when they meet ranges from hurtful to playful, and today, it’s lighthearted. Jaskier has somehow become something like a friend. She keeps her composure when he lets go of her hand, but something must show as when his eyes meet hers he pauses, thoughtful. </p><p>Geralt seems equally thoughtful, eyes narrowing for just a moment, but he returns his attention to the crowd. </p><p>“Will you join us for dinner?” Jaskier asks, and sounds genuinely hopeful. </p><p>She hesitates for a moment, but, well. “Only if we eat somewhere with a decent wine.” </p><p>“A decent wine? Here?” Jaskier grins at her, offering his arm, and she takes it. “I doubt we’ll find anything to your standards in wine within four counties, but there is a <em>terribly</em> good local ale at the Ram’s Loins. I know it’s an awful name, but really, it’s quite a good tavern…” </p><p>She lets herself be led off, Geralt looming behind them like some great black specter of death, and yet, she feels safer and more settled in her skin than she has in years. She glances back at Geralt, who obediently steps up to her other side. His bulk is reassuring, in some strange way, and when they’re seated at the Ram’s Loins his knee rests against hers. Jaskier is still talking about something to do with Geralt’s most recent hunt with lively enthusiasm, and Yennefer settles in her chair as the local ale is brought. </p><p>It really is good ale. </p><p>Her hands stop shaking about the time that Jaskier gets easily coaxed into playing for the crowd, and before long the tables have been pushed out of the way for people to dance. </p><p>“Do you dance, Geralt?” she asks, watching as Jaskier twirls easily through the couples, calling out the song and playing as he goes. </p><p>“Sometimes,” he allows, looking at her sidelong. He has a horribly awkward smile, and she shouldn’t find it endearing at all. His teeth are strange, just slightly off, and his eyes near glow in the half-light. His pupils are massive right now, near human in how round they are. “Usually for harvest festivals. Belleteyn. That sort of thing. Other times, too.” </p><p>Yennefer gets to her feet and holds out her hand. Geralt takes it carefully, rising with her. “Then let us dance.” </p><p>His hand is near double the size of hers. </p><p>She could kill him with a thought. </p><p>Something about the combination of those two thoughts soothes her, and she pulls him into the whirl of the dance. It’s a peasantry standard, the kind that most anywhere in the North people know, and Geralt moves beautifully, hands solid when he grips her waist for the lifts. Jaskier flashes past them in moments, a glittering butterfly in polished blue cotton, and Yennefer finds herself smiling as Geralt twirls her to make her dress float at the last chords of the song. </p><p>Geralt looks down at her and smiles, a soft and simple little thing, and suddenly, desperately, Yennefer just wants to be elsewhere. He looks at her like she’s magic incarnate, like she’s unbreakable crystal, like she’s beautiful and everything he could ever want. She doesn’t know what to do with that, frankly. </p><p>She might want to find out. </p><p>Her hand tightens in his, and Yennefer looks to Jaskier, raising an eyebrow. Jaskier, mid tuning for the next song, smiles and nods towards the door, giving them a little finger wave. Yennefer looks back to Geralt, who seems thoroughly surprised, and says, “Get your cloak. Let’s go, shall we?” </p><p>Geralt hums agreement, and she doesn’t let go of his hand until she’s stepping out of her dress in the room he’s sharing with Jaskier at the inn. Geralt takes her apart with careful hands and puts her back together again, over and over, and when evening finally comes she feels almost like a person again. She’s just finished dressing again when Jaskier knocks and steps into the room, smiling at the pair of them. </p><p>“Better?” he asks, and Yennefer stares at him. </p><p>“Yeah,” Geralt says, looking at her. His smile is soft. “Some, at least.” </p><p>“Glad to hear it.” Jaskier comes over and sets his lute down to do up the buttons on her back, the ones she usually gets with magic. His fingers are clever and gentle. “I do love this style, though, forgive me for sniping earlier. The buttons are such a lovely little touch, even if they are a pain to do one-handed.” </p><p>“Of course that would be your concern,” Yennefer says dryly, and Jaskier chuckles. He kisses the curve of her shoulder, a sort of affectionate fondness to it, and Yennefer blinks at the wall. </p><p>“I am a man given to having women out of their clothes quickly, if possible. Such things are always my concern,” he says, and finishes up the last button at the collar. “Ah, I’d love to see you in a nice burgundy one day. The black is always stunning, and you’d look magnificent in anything.” </p><p>“I do,” she agrees, and turns to face him. Jaskier smiles at her, bright and easy. “You are a very strange man, bard.” </p><p>“I am,” he agrees cheerfully. “Never once pretended otherwise.” </p><p>On impulse, she leans in and kisses his cheek. He blinks, surprised but pleased, and she pats the spot once before going to kiss Geralt goodbye and slipping out the door. </p><p>She’ll see them again soon enough. For now, she opens a porta in the hall, and takes herself far, far away from friends and old memories alike. There are better things for her to be doing than turning around to see if there’s space for her to stay in their bed tonight.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Baths (Eskel & Sex Worker!OC, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lilac, a curious young sex worker with a love of stories, meets her first Witcher and gets an education.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Usage of the word whore in a non derogatory way, mentions of sex (as this is a brothel) without much detail. </p>
<p>Also Witchers purr thank you for coming to my TED talk.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lilac is a professional whore. </p>
<p>Lilac isn’t her real name, of course, but the madam of the Wicked Moon Brothel had given her a pitying look when she gave her real one, so for all intents and purposes Agnes of Rowanwood is no more. Lilac is 18 and moderately pretty, with four mouths to feed and two dead parents, so she’s doing her best with what she’s got, and Agnes isn’t a name to pay the bills. The madam had told her flower names were always a good choice, and her ma had liked lilacs. Wicked Moon is just outside of Tretogor, serving mostly middle class men on their way home or from home to travel, and it’s a nice, solid building. Mostly stone, some wood, good furnishings, actual beds, <em>and</em> they have guards round the clock to handle difficult customers. Lilac is well aware that she’s very lucky in her employer. </p>
<p>She’s been working the Wicked Moon for two months when there’s a commotion outside the main doors, and the eight gossiping girls in the front parlor all pause together to look at the door. Madam looks up from where she’s doing the books and sighs, twitching her shawl over her shoulders and standing up. </p>
<p>Sometimes the rougher kind of customer likes to come calling. Madam doesn’t hold with that. They’re proper respectable here, mostly. Lilac leans into Lily, uncertain, and Lily pats her shoulder. Violet and Petunia both peer at the door, and the others (Tulip, Jade, Amber, and Hortense- don’t ask) all shift a little nervously and eye the curtain covered door that leads to the escape hole, just in case. </p>
<p>One of the guards steps through the main doors and bobs his head to Madam. “Witcher’s here, wants you to take a look at him and see if he needs dunking in the horse trough before a bath.” </p>
<p>To Lilac’s surprise, everyone relaxes. Madam rolls her eyes and sails forward to the doors, banging them open and stalking out to see the Witcher. </p>
<p>“We serve Wtichers?” Lilac asks, a little startled. </p>
<p>Hortense snorts, fussing with her hair. “Of course we do! Not too many come through, but they’re always good.”</p>
<p>Lilac blinks, and Lily pats her head. </p>
<p>“You’ll see,” Lily says, smiling. “They pay well if you’re nice to them, and they’ve got enough experience under their belts to make them fun. You’ll like it. We get about 6 different ones through the year. Coen, he’s all chivalrous and sweet, just wants to hold your hand and be loved on a bit. Lambert doesn’t want sex most of the time, just a haircut and a massage and to sleep, and he always pays double since he usually winds out getting someone else kicked out for being too loud and interrupting his nap. Gaetan’s younger than most of them but he likes things acrobatic, he’s fun- bit of a temper, but if you’re nice to him he’s sweet. Geralt’s rare to pass through, but he just likes a really hot long bath and getting ridden hard and put away wet, followed by a very long nap. And then there’s Eskel.” </p>
<p>The door opens, and the Witcher steps in. Lilac half expects there to be a crash of thunder and lightning behind him, and shrinks back at the figure he makes. He’s <em>massive</em>, with shoulders near twice as broad as she is. </p>
<p>“Right on cue,” Tulip drawls, adjusting her shirt to show more cleavage. “You’re late, Eskel! Usually you’re here weeks ago!” </p>
<p>Lilac stares as the Witcher laughs. His hair is filthy, his clothes worse, and massive scars are raked down one side of his face. He looks absolutely terrifying, and her heart skips a beat, only to settle when he says, in a shockingly warm voice, “Tulip, had I known you were counting the days I’d have fled Borriton faster.” </p>
<p>He has a very lovely speaking voice, and his eyes might be unsettling yellow, but they’re gentle. He is absolutely covered in mud though. </p>
<p>Madam sweeps back in as he obediently stays on the rug, not moving further in. “Eskel, stop flirting, Tulip’s got the Count de Vorchen set to come calling for her time this evening.”</p>
<p>Eskel whistles, wiggling his eyebrows and making them all laugh. Lilac feels a little less nervous just with that, and peers around Lily’s arm to get a better look at him. He spots her, and smiles. She squeaks, very faintly. </p>
<p>“I see you’ve someone new,” he says, smile still gentle. </p>
<p>“Lilac,” Madam says crisply. “She needs to learn how to manage your type, so she’ll fit for you this evening.”  </p>
<p>“Gwynette,” Eskel protests, gesturing at himself. “I’m hardly easy to manage on the best of days, and I’m filthy-” </p>
<p>“She knows how to draw a bath,” Madam says, and Lilac nervously stands as Madam beckons to her. “You and your kind aren’t about to stop coming here until I get rid of that bathing room, and she needs a bit more of the kind of teaching you can provide me cheap. Two rounds, one with the good oils, I presume?” </p>
<p>“And whatever decent red wine you’ve got,” Eskel agrees, looking at Lilac for a moment just to judge if she’s alright. He’s apparently pleased by whatever he sees and returns his attention to Madam. “It has been a <em>week</em>, Gwynette.” </p>
<p>Madam snorts. “If you’re coming from Borriton, I’m not surprised, Duke Gaspard is next to useless. Jade! Take his clothes to be laundered, and Tulip, get one of those lousy stable boys to tend to his horse.” </p>
<p>The bathing chamber at the Wicked Moon is a new and very expensive investment that has paid for itself in how many people want to use it. Lilac absolutely adores it, and the free use of it had been a major selling point in staying with Wicked Moon. The tub is made from stone, set into the ground, and hot water is pumped in from a spelled spigot. There’s a place to sit all around the wide edge, and the floorboards around it have been sealed against water damage. She loves the bathing tub, and has yet to stop delighting in getting to use it. </p>
<p>She gets the water prepped as Jade helps Eskel out of his filthy armor, and is about to add the oils when Eskel calls, “Wait on the oils, I should rinse first.” </p>
<p>She jumps but nods, and goes to fetch one of the soap cakes. “Scents for soap, sir?” </p>
<p>“Just Eskel, Lilac. And the rosewater, please.” </p>
<p>Lilac blinks, but picks it off of the wall. By the time she’s turned around Eskel’s dunked into the bathing tub and started scrubbing off the worst of the mud. It comes off easily, even faster when she hands over the soap, and she watches with some fascination as it peels away to reveal thick, strong arms with a pleasing dusting of hair. His chest is deeply scarred, and the grime melts off of him to reveal he’s pale, but almost olive toned, and his hair dusky. The scars are distracting, but really… he is very beautiful. Almost knightly. </p>
<p>Lilac has always dreamed of adventure. Not very much, because she knows she’s doomed to a life in this place, keeping his siblings alive and doing the best she can. But he does look like the image of a gallant knight, outside of those scars, and he probably has all sorts of stories. She’s been thinking about stories a lot lately, during her more routine hours at work. She wants to learn how to write and put them down on a page. </p>
<p>“Can I help?” she asks after he dunks his head and vigorously shakes his hair to get most of the grime out. </p>
<p>“On the top shelf over there, there are two bottles. They’re for my hair. If you’d be so kind?” </p>
<p>Well, Madam did say she’d see strange things while working here. Witcher hair care certainly qualifies. </p>
<p>She kneels behind him once he tells her which to use first, hiking up her shift so he can lean his head back and let her get at his scalp. It feels bizarrely like tending to one of her younger siblings needing their hair washed, and without thinking she gets to work scrubbing hard, fingers rough on his scalp. He melts almost instantly, and her eyes go wide as a soft, thready sound like a cat’s purr starts rumbling in his throat. It’s faint but clear, and she can see the skin of his throat moving slightly</p>
<p>It’s <em>cute</em>. </p>
<p>She wants to hear more of it, so she takes care to work the soap all the way through his hair before taking a pitcher to gently wash it out. Free of the grime, it’s a warm gold shot through with brown, like a tawny lion’s mane. The color is beautiful. She marvels a little at it before getting back to working on his scalp, and once his hair is clean and shining she steps back so they can empty the bathing tub and fill it again. </p>
<p>Eskel climbs out of the water without a hint of shyness about his body, and Lilac has to do some hard work to keep her eyebrows from climbing as she drains and refills the tub. Eskel sits out of the way on the floor, cross-legged and patient as she adds the oils. He looks rather young for a Witcher, she thinks. Older than her, younger than Madam, but Witchers are supposed to be long living, aren’t they? She has no idea how old he really is. </p>
<p>She looks up a little nervously, and says shyly, “What did you hunt?” </p>
<p>Eskel smiles at her, propping his chin in his hand. “A shaelmaar. It’s a large, nasty beast that mostly lives underground. Some fool Duke bought one to hunt for sport, and instead I got to hunt it after it hunted him and his men. His wife called me in to take it down, on the condition it killed the Duke first.” Lilac’s eyes go wide, fascinated. Eskel’s smile widens. “Fetch the wine and I’ll tell you about it.” </p>
<p>Lilac scrambles to her feet, and when she comes back with the wine and a glass, Eskel is relaxing in the bath. </p>
<p>“Put your hair up and come sit with me,” he says, taking the bottle from her. “It’s nice to have a listening ear, and you seem like the type to like adventure stories.” </p>
<p>“I do,” she admits, and pulls her hair up before shrugging out of her shift in a practiced motion that has him nodding in approval. Lilac feels very smug about that- she’s worked hard at that move, and had Hortense teach her how to do it  in a single shimmy. She climbs into the bath, muscles immediately relaxing in the wonderful hot water, and he offers her a glass. “Are you sure? It’s a good wine.” </p>
<p>“We have all night,” he says simply, “only the one for you, though, because I’ll burn through three quarters of this bottle as fast as you’ll burn through the one glass.” </p>
<p>Lilac leans in, all fear forgotten. “Really? How? Is it a liver thing? Or a heart thing?” </p>
<p>Eskel smiles at her. “Liver, very good. And my body is made to process toxins very fast. Witchers are hard to poison with normal means.” </p>
<p>“Can you eat hemlock?” </p>
<p>“I can.” </p>
<p>“And foxgloves?” </p>
<p>“And foxgloves.” </p>
<p>Wine completely forgotten, Lilac scoots closer. “Tell me about shaelmaars.” </p>
<p>In the morning, after a very good night in which Lilac learned a very large number of fascinating new skills along with exactly how much of a good time a man with a long tongue and a seemingly endless lung capacity could show her, Lilac helped Eskel get his freshly cleaned armor on and smiled up at him. It had been a good night, and she had been beyond thrilled when she got him to start purring again when he started falling asleep, just by stroking his hair. He wasn’t all that scary, really. The scars were still a little intimidating, but they weren’t that bad, once you looked past them. And he told her so <em>many</em> stories, endlessly fascinating things. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” she said simply, and he bent to kiss her forehead and make her laugh. </p>
<p>“You’re very welcome, Lilac,” he says, smiling down at her. “Not so scary, are we?” </p>
<p>“No,” she says, grinning. “I don’t think so. If I ask the others, will they tell me stories too?” </p>
<p>“Hmm… Geralt might, if you get him after he’s worn out, but he’s a bit close mouthed. Lambert, definitely, get him mid-massage and he’ll talk forever. I can’t speak to any others who pass through here.” He gently tugs at a lock of her hair, looking very fond. “Alright. Show me out, I’ll settle up with Gwynette.” </p>
<p>Lilac leads him down the stairs, holding up her skirt. “I can’t believe you call her by her name.” </p>
<p>“I knew her when she was just another name at the Passiflora,” he says, sounding very fond indeed. “She hit me with a frying pan once. Liked her ever since. I helped her get the coin together for this place.” </p>
<p>Lilac looks back at him, puzzled. Madam is at least 50. “How old are you, then? You don’t look more than your forties, at a stretch.” </p>
<p>Eskel just laughs, deep and full, and goes to Madam’s table to settle his bill. </p>
<p>She asks Madam about it once he’s stepped out, and Madam rolls her eyes. </p>
<p>“Child,” she says, with a bit of a smile, “I was at his 80th birthday party.” </p>
<p>Lilac stares, and then bolts for the door. Eskel’s just climbing onto an enormous black gelding that looks like it would take her arm off if she touched it, and he looks down at her with a raised eyebrow. </p>
<p>“You <em>cannot</em> be a hundred years!” </p>
<p>“I’m not,” he agrees placidly, leaning on the pommel of his saddle. “I’m 102.” </p>
<p>Lilac gapes at him. “No.” </p>
<p>“Yes!” </p>
<p>She leans on the rails, eyes wide. “You’d better come back! I have <em>so many questions</em> about the world! I want to hear all the stories!” </p>
<p>Eskel laughs, tossing his head back. In the sunlight he looks like a battered young god, and his golden eyes flash as he looks back at her. “Stay well, Lilac. I’ll bring you stories when I’m back next.” </p>
<p>And with that he rides off. Lilac watches him go, stunned, and finally steps back inside. </p>
<p>Madam looks at her thoughtfully as she comes in and collapses on one of the sofas. She taps her quill against her mouth and says thoughtfully, “Lilac… How would you like to learn how to read and write? It’s just that I’ve been thinking about fetching someone here who would write erotic stories.” </p>
<p>Lilac looks up at her with wide eyes. </p>
<p>Five years later, Eskel makes her sign all seven of his very dog eared copies of her books, grinning all the while.</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Portals (Vesemir & Wolf puppies, G)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Geralt gets stuck in a tree after running away from lessons on portals. Vesemir just wanted to read his book in peace, thank you very much.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Teenage boys will be teenage boys, and Vesemir should be sainted for putting up with them for so many years.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Vesemir’s day is going very well. He’s had a very nice lunch, his classes went off without a hitch in the morning, and Mattias has just uncovered a book in the library that they all thought was lost, so he’s planning to have a very nice, quiet afternoon reading “Lord of the Insects” and musing on the nature of man all by himself. In theory, this should be a very achievable goal.</p><p>This plan is interrupted by the door to his chambers banging open and most of the middle cohort of Grassed boys tumbling in ass over teakettle and scrambling to their feet in front of his desk, and all starting to talk at once in the middle of what is clearly growing hystics. </p><p>“Can’t let him do it-!” </p><p>“And then Heironymous said-” </p><p>“-Green, and he said that was bad-” </p><p>“And it was so far, like, the furthest I’ve ever seen! It was bad-” </p><p>“I can’t get him down-” </p><p>“-There wasn’t any blood but it was just so far, and that’s not normal-” </p><p>“What if he explodes?! What if he EXPLODES!?” </p><p>Vesemir holds up a hand, and the group obediently shuts up. Rubbing his forehead, he points at Gweld, who’s physically trembling with the force of holding in his words. “I have no idea what any of you are trying to tell me. Gweld, explain. <em>Succinctly.</em>” </p><p>Gweld blurts out, “We did the portal training today and Geralt got super sick and turned green and vomited everywhere when it opened up and said he felt like there was pressure all over him and bolted but Mage Heironymous still made us do it and when we got back he wasn’t there so we went looking and we found him but he’s up a tree and we were going to Aard him down but he’s like 30 feet up and I don’t know if he can land that well yet and what if he explodes from the pressure of going through a portal because his mutagens are weird and we don’t want him to <em>die</em>!” </p><p>Vesemir stares at them. Eskel’s nearly in tears, Gweld is clearly shaken, Gardis and Clovis both look like they want to bolt and start screaming at the same time, and Aubry looks like he wants to flip Vesemir’s desk and drag him out of the room to make him fix everything. For a moment, he has absolutely no idea what to say.</p><p>He settles on, “Geralt’s in a tree?” </p><p>Geralt is in a tree. </p><p>Vesemir stares up, mildly impressed. Geralt’s scaled one of the massive pines on the edge of the forest, and clearly has no intention of coming down any time soon. This is possibly because he seems to be stuck, and clinging to the branches for dear life. </p><p>“Well, this is certainly a pickle,” he says, hands on hips. “Geralt, what the fuck are you doing?” </p><p>From up the tree comes a thready, “It was going to <em>kill</em> me.” </p><p>“It was not,” Vesemir retorts. “Portalling’s perfectly safe. You need to know what it feels like so you can get used to traveling that way! You have to do it eventually.” </p><p>“I’ll <em>explode</em>,” Geralt wails, clearly hysterical, and Vesemir takes a moment to remember that Geralt is, in fact, all of 14 years old, double mutated, and always has been a sensitive young thing. He’s gone and gotten himself into a feedback loop of anxiety, and that’s not going to help anything. All of the boys are shifting in a restless, worried mass around him, and he snags Eskel before he can go start climbing a tree too. </p><p>“If I promise you don’t have to do the portalling today, will you come down?” Vesemir calls, and there’s a long pause. </p><p>Gweld leans over. “I think he’s stuck.” </p><p>Vesemir pinches the bridge of his nose. “Geralt. Are you stuck?” </p><p>“Nnnnooooo?” Geralt’s voice is a good two octaves higher than usual. </p><p>Vesemir sighs. “You couldn’t have more clearly said yes if you shouted it,” he mutters, and claps his hands. The boys all jump. “Alright. Training for today is figuring out how to get this idiot out of his tree, safely, and <em>without</em> setting it or him on fire. We’re going to test your teamwork.” </p><p>This gets them all moving like drowners after a spotlight, and Vesemir finds a nice rock to sit on with his book to keep an eye on them and supervise this unexpected training situation. The boys current plan is to cut down trees to build a very tall ladder. He calls out sharp no’s whenever their plans get too reckless, and gets a good third of the way through the book before Rennes comes wandering out to see what’s going on. </p><p>By this point the boys are attempting to fashion some sort of safety net from a sling to have Geralt jump into within the tree itself, which has potential. There’s some argument about the construction, though.</p><p>“What,” Rennes says mildly, “the fuck.” </p><p>“Geralt’s stuck in a tree,” Vesemir says, turning a page. </p><p>“So I see. How?” </p><p>“Well he climbed it, presumably.” </p><p>Rennes smacks him upside the back of the head, making Vesemir chuckle. “Brat. Come on.” </p><p>“Apparently he interacted badly with the portal for the lesson and panicked,” Vesemir says, putting a lace bookmark carefully in the pages. “Seems like he’s not going to be big on portals.” </p><p>Rennes chuckles, sitting on the rock next to him as the boys start swarming up the tree. “I’m not overly fond of them myself, and that boy loves horses. He’ll be fine. We’ll still have to get him to go through them once or twice to acclimate, but it might just be he won’t ever take to them.” </p><p>“Fair enough.” Vesemir barely lifts his voice. “Aubry, do <em>not</em> try to brace yourself on Gardis, you’re much heavier than he is and I don’t want any broken bones today. Other way around!” </p><p>The two obediently shuffle within the tree, cursing violently about sap.</p><p>“I had plans for today,” Vesemir muses as Geralt falls five feet into a cloak net, shrieking like a banshee the entire time. “I was going to have a lovely afternoon all to myself.” </p><p>“It’s sweet that you think you get days off,” Rennes says, grinning as Geralt starts climbing down with the rest of the group. “Ah, there they go. Well, make sure they get a bath.” </p><p>“I’ll dunk them all myself,” Vesemir says dryly as Geralt reaches the ground and collapses on it, Gweld and Eskel immediately going to fuss over him. Rennes chuckles, clapping him on the shoulder, and leaves as Vesemir tucks the book in his gambeson and gets up to go see to his wayward charges. The boys scatter like skittish kittens when he walks up, and he rolls Geralt over with his boot. Geralt stares up at him, new yellow eyes enormous and miserable. Vesemir raises an eyebrow. “Are you done?” </p><p>“Yes,” Geralt says meekly. </p><p>“Learned your lesson about running away to places you can <em>get back out of</em>?”</p><p>“Yes,” he says, even more meekly.</p><p>“Good lad. Up you get, and then all of you to the baths and laundry to get that sap off.” </p><p>He sends the troupe of them marching before him all the way down to the caverns for the baths, pulling Geralt back for a moment before they go in. He waits pointedly until the others are too far to eavesdrop before he says, “You don’t have to do it today, but you’re going to have to eventually. Better to do it sooner than later. Might have to work up to it, but you need to learn.” </p><p>“I know,” Geralt mumbles. His hair, once fine brown curls, is now a moderately long white near the same shade as Vesemir’s. The mages say it’s from the stress of the double Grasses, marking him as being under so much strain. He’s an awkward, gangly thing, always hungry, and all Vesemir can hope is that he keeps fighting through it. “I don’t think I’m ever going to like portals.” </p><p>“You don’t have to. Just have to be able to handle them.” </p><p>That seems to cheer him up, and Vesemir claps him on the shoulder before shooing him off to bathe. Time to go read his book in peace. </p><p>Many, many years later, staring up a familiar tree as Cirilla shouts down at him, “I’m <em>not</em> doing any more history today, I’ll explode!” Vesemir finds himself smiling. </p><p>“Like parent, like child,” he says, and watches Eskel come out with a cloak and a wide smile that says he caught every word.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Eyes (Geralt/Jaskier, pre-relationship, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jaskier learns about a fun quirk of Witcher biology, and Geralt experiences the mortifying ordeal of being known by someone who loves easily.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier is strange. </p><p>Geralt has been traveling with the noisy little bard for about two months, and it’s been a shockingly good time. Jaskier knows next to nothing about foraging, hunting, or basic survival out in the wilds, but he’s an eager learner and Geralt has missed teaching. Just a little. Jaskier also makes things easier in towns, because that damned song is taking off and doing wonders for Geralt’s reputation, and because Jaskier is good with people. He’s already renegotiated contracts twice for more favorable outcomes on Geralt’s end, and he’s a lively, bouncy thing that serves to distract people from the Witcher in their midst. </p><p>He’s a good travel companion. His voice can fade into the background of the world, and he’ll talk to himself for hours. Geralt, in Jaskier’s opinion, is perfect because it means he can talk out loud and feel like he’s getting somewhere and doesn’t have to deal with people interrupting him. That works out nicely for both of them. He’s very neat at skinning things or plucking birds, a decent cook that’s going to grow into a frankly excellent one if Geralt’s any judge, provides entertainment, and doesn’t snore. He also has incredible walking stamina already, and can regularly travel 20 miles on foot in a day while playing the lute and carrying his pack, so Geralt’s not wanting for speed.</p><p>Jaskier also doesn’t smell of fear. Not anymore, at least. Once or twice Geralt’s caught the sudden spike of sweat and nerves, but that was only in the first week, and only on times when Geralt was truly frustrated with something. After a week, Jaskier could read him more easily, and relaxed a little. </p><p>He’s still strange though. </p><p>They’re somewhere in Redania, settling down for the night in the midst of autumn, and Geralt is making his way back from a nearby stream in the woods they’re camped in with a filled pair of waterskins. The night is dark and lovely, and he follows the light of the campfire to the edge of the clearing that they’ve set up to stay in for the night. Geralt pauses in the dark shadows of the trees, taking a moment to just look at the scene. It looks like something out of a painting, Jaskier with his lute by the fire, Roach in the background patiently munching away. He takes a moment to fix it in his mind- the way the firelight paints the young bard at his rest, the soft waves of his hair and the glitter on his sword handles. He shifts his weight and a stick cracks underfoot. </p><p>Jaskier’s head snaps around, lute music cutting off abruptly, and his eyes fix exactly on Geralt’s and go massive with terror. He drops the lute and lunges for Geralt’s swords, drawing the silver in one smooth motion as he gets to his feet, backing up so he’s close to Roach. Geralt blinks, baffled, and Jaskier lets out a string of curses, eyes staying firmly fixed on him. </p><p>The air reeks of fear, but Jaskier doesn’t have a bow and seems more inclined to run away, so Geralt steps out of the woods and into the campfire light. Jaskier’s scent stays fearful. </p><p>“Jaskier, put my sword down before you hurt yourself,” he orders, and Jaskier shakes his head, mouth clamped tightly shut. </p><p>Geralt watches as he fishes in his belt pouch for a silver piece, and starts when Jaskier aggressively throws it at him and it pings off of his cheek. The coin falls to the ground, and Geralt stares at him. </p><p>“What the fuck was that?” he asks, but Jaskier just collapses with a wheeze of relief onto a stump, shaking hands setting the sword down carefully. </p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier says, voice surprisingly steady for how bad he’s shaking, “did you know you have eyeshine? Like a cat?” </p><p>“Yes?” </p><p>“Oh. Thrilling. Because I didn’t, and thought that I was about to get eaten by a monster coming out of the woods without you to defend me. Melitele’s holy fucking tits, I may faint.” Jaskier puts his head between his legs, breathing deep. “When I’m done hyperventilating you are going to hug me.” </p><p>Geralt blinks. “No.” </p><p>“Oh no you don’t, you’re <em>going to</em>, because I am not going to have my stupid little head associate you with scary things,” Jaskier says, still talking to the log. “I’ve worked really hard on not being scared of you because you aren’t that scary even if my hindbrain starts yelling that you’re a predator going to eat me, and I’m not having something as silly as not expecting your eyes to be reflective be the thing that messes things up.” </p><p>Geralt genuinely has no idea what to say, so he settles for picking up his sword and putting it back in the appropriate scabbard. Roach leans over from her grazing to whuffle at Jaskier’s hair, and he slowly sits up and reaches back to stroke her face. </p><p>“Roach,” he says, with a ghost of a smile, “your master is a strange man, but I love him for it.” </p><p>Geralt very nearly trips over his own feet. </p><p>“Geralt, do be careful there!” Jaskier says, immediately concerned by his stumble and getting to his feet in a rush, but Geralt just wheels around to glare at him. </p><p>“Don’t,” he says, the word almost cracking as he spits it out. Jaskier blinks,  clearly baffled. </p><p>“Don’t what?” </p><p>Geralt shakes his head, gesturing at him with a vague, sweeping gesture. “Don’t- don’t fucking <em>lie</em> or joke about that. You don’t- You can’t love me. That’s not- not possible.”</p><p>Jaskier blinks at him. “Not possible? What are you talking about? Of course I love you.” </p><p>Geralt stares. His mouth opens and shuts a few times. Finally, he chokes out, “You’ve known me two months.” </p><p>“Yes?” Jaskier agrees, a little confused. “There’s not a time limit on these things, you know. I started loving you, oh, week three?” </p><p>It’s Geralt’s turn to sit down hard, staring at Jaskier with wide eyes. </p><p>“No,” he says, but it’s weak. “I… you can’t.” </p><p>“Oh, I can’t, can I? Oh, Geralt. You don’t get a say in how my heart reacts,” Jaskier says, and his smile is painfully fond. Geralt’s heart is racing, for a Witcher’s heart. His eyes are very blue and bright in the darkness, lit up from the fire. “I’ve always been this way. My heart’s easy to catch, Geralt, and I’ve stopped fighting it. I love people, I love them easily, and I don’t in the slightest feel bad about it. I don’t expect you to love me back, I barely expect you to <em>like</em> me. But I do love you. And I’ve yet to fall out of love with someone.” </p><p>“You’re young,” Geralt rasps. </p><p>“Mmm, I am,” he agrees, smiling easily. “But I haven’t fallen out of love with anyone yet. And if I do, I don’t think it’s going to be you. You’re very easy to love, Geralt.” </p><p>Geralt shakes his head, mute. Jaskier smiles, taking his hands and meeting his eyes easily. </p><p>“Geralt of Rivia,” he says, sounding much older and much fonder than he has any right to, “I will hold you in my heart for longer than you may care to know me, and when I am a very old man indeed I’ll look back on these past few months with nothing but joy. You are easy to love, Geralt. You’re all sorts of good under all that bluster, and I love you for that. I love your humor, and the way you’ve started humming when you think I can’t hear you. I love watching you start to smile again, just with your eyes. I don’t know what you’re running from, but I think you’re starting to heal from it, and I’m happy about that.  And I do actually love your eyes, especially when you spot birds flying. They go all huge and round when they startle out of bushes, and it’s <em>so</em> cute. You are easy to love, and light in my heart. And you cannot stop me from carrying that love, even when you hate yourself. Nothing may ever come of this, because I could take or leave sex when I really truly love someone, but you can’t stop me from loving you.” </p><p>He stands, and Geralt squeezes his eyes shut as Jaskier bends to kiss his forehead. It’s more tender than he knows what to do with it, and as Jaskier goes to fetch his waterskin, Geralt stays on his log and watches him. </p><p>It’s autumn. Jaskier’s return to Oxenfurt has already been established. </p><p>“Gerallllt? How close to the fire do I put the honey pot to heat it properly again?” </p><p>Geralt levers himself to his feet. It’s a problem for the future, and for now he needs to make sure Jaskier doesn’t burn his hands. Jaskier smiles up at him, meeting his eyes easily, and Geralt wonders how wide his pupils are in the dark, if he looks almost human. He finds it doesn’t really matter, as Jaskier triumphantly hands him honeyed bread later, he settles back and relaxes. </p><p>Geralt will think about Jaskier’s declaration, while he’s away at Kaer Morhen for winter. And he’ll think about what Jaskier said about his starting to heal. Maybe… maybe the wound of Renfri’s death really is starting to heal, with every rendition of that song that was a kind lie. Maybe he needed this, another ridiculous 18 year old, this one on a mission to see the world and apparently care for battered old Witchers. </p><p>He’ll think about it. And maybe… maybe he’ll find Jaskier again in the spring. </p><p>Maybe Jaskier can teach him a thing or two about loving the world again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For added fun, go reread Chapter 2 after reading this one.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Father (Geralt/Jaskier, mentioned G/Y/J, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Geralt learns that Jaskier has sired children, and Jaskier reflects on the nature of fatherhood as it pertains to him.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW: Drinking of alcohol to cope (kept from becoming alcohol abuse), lies of omission (treated as an issue, but not a pressing one. Geralt is understanding of Jaskier's struggles)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They arrive at the town late on a bitterly cold and rainy autumn afternoon, somewhere in lower Kaedwen, and Geralt thanks every bit of fortune that the inn has an overhang to cover the horses. Roach is soaked and not happy about it, and Jaskier has been worryingly quiet since the rain started, teeth chattering. It’s biting and miserable out of doors, and they hurry under the shelter and into the warmth.</p><p>When they step inside, Jaskier shedding his waterlogged cloak, Geralt makes his way to the innkeeper. The innkeeper looks up, glancing at them both, and his face lights up. </p><p>“Ah, Master Jaskier!” </p><p>Jaskier freezes and turns, and Geralt spots his expression flash from confusion, to recognition, to alarm, and then to pastoral cheer in seconds. “My goodness, I hadn’t realized we were so close! How have you been?” </p><p>“Oh, can’t complain,” the innkeeper says, and glances at Geralt. “This must be your White Wolf, then.” </p><p>“That would indeed be him.” Jaskier cranks up the charm, coming to stand by Geralt. “Have you rooms available for the evening?” </p><p>The innkeeper nods. “I do, but it’d be my head if I didn’t send up to the castle for them to collect you. They’ve missed you dreadfully.” </p><p>Jaskier’s smile is a little strained, but only someone who’s known him as long as Geralt has would even notice. “Oh, I see.” </p><p>The innkeeper gives them drinks, all the same, and Jaskier finishes his fast, still smiling his fake smile and not really looking at Geralt. Geralt decides to leave it, for now. If Jaskier wants to tell him, he will. </p><p>A boy runs back to tell them that the Lord and Lady eagerly await them, and so Geralt gathers Roach and they head up to the modest castle that oversees the village. Roach is taken to the stables with Geralt’s glare to ensure the stablehands care for her properly, and they head for the doors of the castle. </p><p>There are three people in the well made but simple clothes favored by Kaedweni nobility waiting for them just inside the doors. One is a middle aged man, very trim and bright eyed, with silver-brown hair and a neat beard, dressed in a rural noble’s jerkin and breeches. He’s handsome and has a thoroughly kind face. The woman beside him looks to be his wife, flaxen blonde with a heart shaped face and large blue eyes, incredibly pretty and with a rather no-nonsense bearing belied by the laugh lines starting to form near her eyes. She’s dressed in rather plain clothes, for a noblewoman, and her hands bear the calluses of a worker. And the third… </p><p>Geralt doesn’t stop in his tracks, because he’s too well trained for that, but he does stare a little. The child nervously clutching his mother’s sensible cotton skirts is the spitting image of Jaskier. Wavy brown hair, cornflower blue eyes, same mouth and nose, it’s all Jaskier. He definitely has his mother's face shape and will have her bearing, but Geralt would bet good money that when he’s grown, the boy will be the double of his father. </p><p>Who is, point of fact, clasping the lord’s arms and being firmly embraced. </p><p>This could get ugly. </p><p>“My Lord Baldwin,” Jaskier’s saying, and he seems genuinely happy to see him. “Gracious, your hair, the silver is utterly charming.” </p><p>Baldwin laughs, reaching up to touch it. “Ah, I thought I may as well look my age now. It’s distinguished, they keep telling me. I see you’re starting to match me a little in the temples, it suits you well!” </p><p>“Ah, thank you! And my Lady Annette, you grow fairer by the day,” he says, dropping into a courtly bow and kissing her hand. </p><p>Annette laughs, allowing it. “Ah, you remain a flirt as ever, Jaskier! This must be Geralt of Rivia, then?” </p><p>Jaskier steps back, beckoning Geralt forward. “Where are my manners, I do apologize. This is indeed Geralt of Rivia, Witcher of the Wolf School, called White Wolf or Gwynbleidd.” </p><p>Geralt bows. “Just Geralt is fine, my lord, my lady.” </p><p>Vesemir had hammered court etiquette into them, and once in a while, he allows himself to actually use it. These two seem relatively decent, for nobles, and he’s curious about the kid. He can tolerate this for now. </p><p>“Welcome to our home,” Lord Baldwin says warmly. “And this is our son, Brom.” </p><p>Brom does an awkward little bow, staring up at Geralt and Geralt lowers his eyes to avoid scaring him too much. Kids tend to either be fascinated by Witchers or deeply terrified, and he’d prefer not to scare him. “A pleasure, Master Brom.” </p><p>“Hi,” Brom says shyly, and dear gods, even his voice sounds like Jaskier’s. Geralt will be shocked if he doesn’t have an excellent singing voice already. “You have pretty eyes.” </p><p>That’s a surprise. Geralt blinks, looking back up at him, and Brom gives him a little smile before hiding back behind his mother again. Jaskier looks like he wants to scoop the kid up and coo at him, but Baldwin waves them inside. </p><p>“We’ll set you up in the spare rooms. They’re connecting, I hope you don’t mind, but you can warm up and change there. Do you have dry clothes, or do you need things?” </p><p>Jaskier smiles. “Waterproofed leather, Baldwin, it’s a wonder.” </p><p>Baldwin smiles, clapping him on the back. “Get changed and warm up, we’ll have supper ready for you whenever you’re feeling like a person again, and I’ll send up some wine to warm you. Master Witcher, I may have work for you as well, but we can discuss that after we’ve eaten.” </p><p>A servant shows them to modest quarters up in the second level, reasonably well appointed and with the fire already stoked. Jaskier and Geralt take no time hurrying out of their clothes, and Jaskier groans with relief as he stands bare before the fire, warming himself. Geralt tosses him a dressing gown, still stuck in his pants, and Jaskier reluctantly puts it on just as a servant brings in the wine. Jaskier thanks her profusely, and as soon as the door closes he pulls out the cork with his teeth and takes a massive drink. </p><p>Geralt, having finally freed himself of his pants without having to resort to cutting them off, wraps his own dressing gown over his chilled body and follows Jaskier as he wanders over the doors to the balcony. Outside the rain has slowed to a miserable drizzle, but the balcony has an overhang to protect it from the elements. </p><p>Jaskier swigs from the wine bottle again and passes it over. Geralt takes it, and doesn’t drink. He waits as Jaskier stares blankly out at the countryside. </p><p>“There are more like him,” he says abruptly, voice harsh. “6 total, with Brom. Brom here in Kaedwen, one in Temeria, two in Redania, one in Cintra, one in Toussaint. Brom, Mordred, Rowan, Rainier, Dominic, Guillame. All noble sons of good houses, or at least acceptable ones. All because their parents couldn’t have a child together and asked me to step in. I’m a bleeding heart for a sad story. But there is the one more, the first. She's common born, not a noble. Julietta. I was 18 and an idiot when I got her mother pregnant, and her mother’s brothers made sure I knew it. I found out after we split that second year. I passed back through Gulet when you had that thing with the wyvern, and. Ta-da. I found a babe with several angry uncles.” </p><p>Jaskier attempts to grab the wine back, and Geralt doesn’t let him have it. </p><p>“Tell me about her,” he says, and Jaskier sighs heavily. </p><p>“Her mother wanted me out of their lives since I wasn’t a part of it to start with, which was fair. She has a wife now. A nice blacksmith. But I never get to forget that Julietta was, for a time, an unwanted child.” He runs a hand through his drying hair. It’s turning to curls, the same way Geralt’s does in the damp. “I didn’t want to be a father. She didn’t want me to be a father. I was a poor, idiot young bard, and she was ruined. Thankful Kalinda came along to her life when she was with child, and I’ve hidden Julietta from my parents. They can’t be dragged into that nightmare, nor can any of the boys. As far as anyone outside of those families know, I am a childless and randy disaster with a Witcher and a sorceress for lovers.” </p><p>Geralt frowns. Jaskier doesn’t talk about his family much. There are reasons for that, and Geralt's well aware of Jaskier's feelings about ending the Lettenhove line with him.</p><p>“I <em>am</em> careful, after that first mess I got into.” Jaskier taps one of his rings on the stone balcony. “Spelled. Unless I take it off there’s no risk.” </p><p>“I see,” Geralt says quietly. “And then someone asked you.” </p><p>“Someone asked me,” he confirms, deflating. He rubs his mouth, looking out at the world. “One of them paid me for it, which was. Upsetting. It’s not his fault he couldn’t get a child on her.” </p><p>Geralt hums. “Stud fees apply for humans and horses, it seems.” </p><p>Jaskier snorts, lightly kicking him. He turns and presses his face to Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt sets the wine bottle down to wrap him up in his arms and just hold him for a while. </p><p>“I’m not a father,” Jaskier says at last, turning his head so he can speak freely. “If I have my way, I never will be. I’m not meant to be a parent. An uncle, yes, I can be that. A godfather to Ciri. A doting older friend. But I can’t be a father. You are. You're good at being a father, a parent. You’re doing wonderfully with Ciri, you’re fantastic with her, but me… I could never. There’s a reason I've never asked for the Law of Surprise.” </p><p>Geralt rubs a hand over his back. “Why never tell us?” </p><p>Jaskier sighs again, heavy. “Because Yenn wants a child. Because you didn’t want a child. Because I’m allowed my secrets. Because this <em>hurts</em>, Geralt. It hurts. Julietta will never know any of the boys. The boys will likely never know each other. My bloodline dies with me, legally speaking, and I don’t want them to bear that burden. I can’t… I can’t give them a family. They have families. They have mothers and fathers who love them, and each other, but couldn’t have had them without me. And it hurts to know that all I can do is sometimes pass through. Most of them know what I am to them, and it’s like you said. I have a pedigree and a decent face, so I was a good choice.” </p><p>Geralt hums, pressing a kiss to his temple. “So, when we went to Cintra, and you were gone for a bit?” </p><p>Jaskier nods, sighing. “Seeing Rowan. He was two, then. He survived, they were visiting family in Cidaris when the attack hit.” </p><p>Geralt lets out a sigh of relief he didn’t know he was holding. Jaskier nuzzles closer to him. “Good. Good. The others…” </p><p>“Julietta’s married, now. Guillame is training to become a knight. Rowan is with his family, they’ve resettled in Cidaris. Brom is here, obviously. Mordred is a page in the Temerian court, Dominic and Rainier at Oxenfurt. They’re two years apart. Rainier came to see me and talk to me about what it meant, for him being there with me teaching in Winters. He wants me to teach him chess, to be an uncle, and he has the most wonderful vocie, he's going to be a fantastic singer one day. Dominic avoids me, which is his right. It still hurts, a little. But they <em>aren’t</em> my sons. They’re not my children.” Jaskier shakes his head and pulls away. Geralt looks at him, takes in the old exhaustion and pain. Jaskier smiles at him. “We have Ciri. And that’s more than enough.” </p><p>Geralt reaches out, taking his hand. “Is this why you were so upset with me, about Ciri being my surprise child?” </p><p>“Some of it,” Jaskier says quietly. “Mostly I just hated you weren’t willing to even try. But it all worked out in the end.” </p><p>Geralt reels him in to kiss him, slow and soft, and Jaskier melts into him. His hands come up to rest on Geralt’s chest, and Geralt takes his time, enjoying each moment of it. When they pull apart, Jaskier’s chest is heaving a little. </p><p>“We have to tell Yennefer,” he says simply, and Jaskier sighs. </p><p>“I know. She’s going to be upset.” </p><p>“She’s going to be more upset if I try and keep it a secret from her.” </p><p>“I know.” Jaskier swipes the wine bottle off of the balcony and takes another drink. “Let’s get dressed and get dinner. They’re nice people, you’ll like them. And maybe we can come back here again some time if the hunting is good. I know you don’t hunt in Kaedwen much.” </p><p>Dinner is delicious, the conversation is good. Brom insists on sitting next to Geralt and Jaskier, which is touching. Baldwin watches Jaskier help Brom with his food with an incredibly soft smile, not in the least begrudging. As Jaskier takes out his lute to play for Brom, Annette, and the staff, he comes to Geralt’s side where he leans on the wall of the dining hall. </p><p>“I count myself blessed my son was given to me with such a beautiful voice,” he says quietly, and Geralt looks at him to find him smiling at Jaskier and Brom. “If you pass through, you are always welcome in my home.” </p><p>Geralt inclines his head. “I thank you for that.” </p><p>Baldwin clasps his arm, and leaves him to watch Jaskier teach Brom the other half of the song, the boy’s soaring young soprano already very true. Jaskier glances up to see him watching, and he knows what he’s thinking of; Ciri’s hands, still small, learning the lute and rebec on Jaskier’s visits. Ciri growing up and growing strong. Ciri who loves him dearly, friend and godchild, Ciri who is so precious even now. </p><p>Geralt closes his eyes, and listens to a Kaedweni baron’s song sing harmony to a Redanian-Keracki Viscount-bard, and thinks of his daughter. His child. </p><p>Jaskier will never be a father, despite the children who bear his face. Geralt is a father, despite never being able to sire one. How the world turns. How strange and wonderful, how beautiful and terrible, how great and glorious. </p><p>When he takes Jaskier to bed, it’s tenderly, and quietly, and if Jaskier cries it’s nobodies business but theirs.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Guillame in Toussaint is indeed the same Guillame from Blood and Wine who loves Vivienne. I took one look at that haircut and color and thought, "Huh, he sure looks like a young book!Dandelion" and thus he got shoehorned into this fic.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Gallop (Geralt, M, Hunt #3)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Geralt turns from hunted to hunter and exacts his revenge for those the noble has killed.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Geralt incinerates a man alive, and kills others for not standing down.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The hounds had ceased their baying, but once Geralt crosses the Okadren with the Heart, the river itself parting so he might walk across smooth river rocks and scramble up the banks, their bellowing begins once more. He can hear them, close enough to be something of a concern. The Heart kneels and he climbs onto his broad, sturdy back, the living wood between his thighs somewhere between smooth and rough. It’s strange to be so high in the air, twice the height he would have been on Roach.</p>
<p>Fuck, he wants Roach back. He misses her already. </p>
<p>“We have to bait the hunters,” he warns as the Okadren wraps its watery body up a tree. “We need them to go to the stones. You mustn’t let them catch us, but they can’t lose us either.” </p>
<p>The Heart huffs, blood spraying from his nostrils. “<em>Humans</em>,” he says through the grinding of rocks in disgust, and Geralt can’t really argue with him. </p>
<p>The shape of the Okadren slithers along the grass as the Heart begins to trot, and then to gallop. The ride is far from smooth. Geralt holds on for dear life as the trees begin to blur together. The black and white of the tall, spindly aspens flashes by, a riot of different shades of green there and gone in less than a blink. Bushes and brambles are no obstacle, long legs flying over them. Sitting astride the wilderness, Geralt feels his blood whisper memories of when he was a wild thing too, druid blood and mutation mixing for something, some call, some bone deep tug- </p>
<p>The Heart comes to a halt, panting, and Geralt turns his head to see a frozen party of hunters a distance from them, just out of bowshot range. The aspens whisper laughter as he looks through the trees and takes them in, the sinking sun sending beams of light through the treeline.</p>
<p>There are 10 men, 9 with the hollow cheeks and haunted eyes of men driven to obey vile commands. Those are on foot, holding pikes or bows, some with nets. But behind them, on a great bay stallion, sits what can only be their Lord. He’s a thickly muscular man, heavy with the weight of someone who saw hard combat as a youth and is only recently going to seed. He has a prodigious moustache, all of his dark waves of hair still inky black, and his grey eyes bore into Geralt. </p>
<p>“Roland fa Haryse, I presume,” Geralt calls, as if he’s simply out for a ride. The Heart snorts beneath him, spraying blood, and he sees the hunters flinch. </p>
<p>Good. They should flinch. </p>
<p>The Cat and Bear heads jingle against his thigh.</p>
<p>“Geralt of Rivia,” fa Haryse says, his voice a rumbling baritone. “You have been leading me and mine on a merry chase, and yet brought me our prey yourself. I must thank you.”</p>
<p>“I’ll pass on accepting it,” Geralt says, resting a hand on the Heart’s broad neck. “You’re meddling in things that ought not be meddled in, fa Haryse. The work you’ve done at the stones will rot your land and starve your people. No amount of blood letting will save you from what you’ve set in motion.” </p>
<p>Roland fa Haryse barks a laugh. “I will kill the gods of the land and be free to level the forest!” he announces. “I will master the river with water wheels, and we will plant and harvest crops in abundance. What do I care if a few outsiders have to die? We starve while others thrive, and I will <em>not</em> be made a fool of by the other nobility. We shall rise glorious and-” </p>
<p>“Fuck you,” Geralt says mildly, and signals the Heart with his knees to run. </p>
<p>The Heart wheels and is off like a shot, and the hounds burst through the trees after them. </p>
<p>“Come,” Geralt breathes into the air, reaching down, down, into the earth through the roots of his being that he’s long since strangled into withering, “chase.” </p>
<p>The land responds in ways he never permits, the tangles of briars sprouting a years worth of growth to send the dogs crying and limping away. The horses buck and whinny at the crackling of trees shooting up. An arrow flies past his ear, and the Heart increases his speed. Geralt trailing wild magic pulled from his lineage and the living Heart itself behind to light their trail. </p>
<p>They lead him on a chase through the woods, and once the hunters start to flag Geralt draws his sword and has the Heart wheel. </p>
<p>“Now,” he says to the Okadren, and the Okadren drops onto the rushing hunters, trapping them all within a bubble of its being. fa Haryse is still bringing up the rear, and Geralt reaches the men. </p>
<p>“Give me your weapons and call off the dogs, and you may live,” he tells them. “Refuse, and I cut you down for your murder.” </p>
<p>Five toss release nets and spears. Four do not. </p>
<p>The Okadren releases the five, and Geralt’s sword takes care of the rest, the Okadren running red as their bodies slump in death. They’re dumped to the ground, the red still swirling, and Geralt picks up a net. </p>
<p>Fa Haryse puts up a good fight, for what it’s worth. </p>
<p>He sees the Heart in charge and turns to position him better, but the Heart is far more powerful than him. He gets a single glancing blow on Geralt’s armor, and Geralt hooks him in the net, hauling from his horse. There’s a long rope attached to it, and Geralt looks down at the thrashing beast and just says, “Let’s go.” </p>
<p>By the time they cross the river rocks and are running up the path to the stones, Roland fa Haryse is bleeding from a thousand and one cuts, and has stopped fighting. </p>
<p>Geralt climbs from the Heart’s back and hauls the netted captive up to the standing stones. The bodies he burned away for the Heart’s sake, leaving only scorch marks. The poppies encroaching upon the stone shiver and thrash in a sudden wind as Geralt dumps Roland fa Haryse in the center of the stones. Roland looks up through swollen eyes, a cut bleeding down his face. </p>
<p>“If you had made offerings of bread and wine to the spirits that guard the fields, you would not be in this mess,” Geralt tells him. “You spilled your own blood here first, then those of others when you saw what it did. You’re the anchor to the spell. Kill you, and it disintegrates.” </p>
<p>“Witcher’s don’ kill ‘umans,” the man begs. </p>
<p>“No, Wolf Witchers don’t,” Geralt agrees, and presses his hand to one of the standing stones as the Okadren and the Heart flank him to watch. “And normally, I’d turn you aside for the Cats to take revenge. But I don’t think they’ll mind if I do some work on their behalf.”</p>
<p>He smiles down at Roland, who looks up at him in abject terror. </p>
<p>“Count yourself lucky,” he advises, fingers twisting into the sign for Igni. “Wolves don’t play with their food.” </p>
<p>He snaps the fingers of his free hand and the magic in the stones takes Igni and amplifies it by a thousand. It’s over in a heartbeat, the shriek of the dying man abruptly cut off by how fast his vocal chords burn up. Around them, the mutated poppies burst into flames as well, a wave of them washing through the woods and snuffing out as quickly as they lit. Geralt pulls his hand from the stone when he sees only the faintest scorch marks remain. </p>
<p>“<em>Wild</em>,” the Heart says in the rustle of trees. “<em>A parent.</em>” </p>
<p>“My mother,” he says. “She was a druid. I try not to think about it.” </p>
<p>Okadren slips into the center of the standing stones, scouring away the scorch marks. “Payment,” it whispers in burbling streams, and Geralt hesitates for a moment. </p>
<p>“My horse,” he says at last. “Can you help me find her and reach her?” </p>
<p>The night has come to them. The Heart takes him through the forest at a smooth gallop, slower than the magical pace of earlier. Now he has a moment to look through the forest, see the curves and bends of the aspens where they seemed so straight earlier. The quaking of their leaves is sweet to his ears, and he closes his eyes to take it all in. Far in the distance he can hear the crying of real wolves, a pack hunting in the distance for their dinner. </p>
<p>He misses his own pack. He wants to go home. He wants his horse. He wants Jaskier. He wants Yennefer. He wants to bury all the wild magic that is his heritage and cover it up, forget it exists and breathe clean mountain air. </p>
<p>He’ll settle for Roach and a good nights rest, though. </p>
<p>They reach the edge of the forest and go on beyond, gathering speed as they rush over grain fields. Men and women coming home freeze in shock at the sight of them, falling to their knees as the Heart of the Forest runs light footed with the River Okadren following behind. From out of the fields rises the Turn of Wheat, her golden hair gleaming like flax as she joins them, enveloping them for only a moment before she’s gone again. Roach is alone, drinking from a stream at the edge of the fields, and Geralt’s heart leaps at the sight of her unharmed. He whistles to her to come, and Roach pricks up her ears and comes trotting to join them. The Heart comes to a halt and Geralt slides from his back to throw his arms around Roach’s neck, sighing with relief. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” he says, turning back to the Okadren and Heart. The Heart bows his head, no longer bleeding from the mouth, looking more vital and glorious than ever. The Okadren runs clean, water alone, and drapes itself amongst the Heart’s massive antlers. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” the Heart replies in birdsong, and wheels on his great hind legs and bounds off into the distance. Geralt watches him go and when they’re out of sight tosses his saddle bags back on Roach and swings up into the saddle. </p>
<p>“Let’s go, Roach,” he says, patting her neck. The medallions jingle against his thigh again. He sighs. “Let’s go find the Dyn Marv.” </p>
<p>With a single nudge, Roach takes up a gallop. In moments, the pair have vanished into the night, as if they were never there.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Throat (Vesemir & Geralt, M)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Geralt returns to Kaer Morhen mute. Vesemir works to untangle what happened as he tries to hide the constant hallucinations he lives with.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Vesemir has violent hallucinations of the dead, both auditory and visual, which severely impact his ability to live outside of Kaer Morhen. Warnings for severe PTSD, imagined blood, gore, violence, and generally not great headspaces.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The summer is just turning to Autumn when Vesemir spots the form slowly coming up the trail. He’s in the middle of reshingling the roof on one of the stables, and spots him only after looking over the edge of the wall to get a moment’s reprieve. At first, he thinks he’s just another hallucination. And then he sees the way that rocks kicked up by the horse’s hooves tumble down through the grass. Not a hallucination, then. </p><p>“No,” Rennes says in his ear, and years of long practice keep him from flinching. “It’s Geralt.” </p><p>It is Geralt. </p><p>He looks awful. </p><p>Vesemir comes down to greet him, and doesn’t let his eyes follow as Varin walks through Roach, or as the boys tumble around Geralt’s legs. Geralt looks up at him, face stricken by absolute grief, and Vesemir just holds out his arms. Geralt falls into them, shuddering. </p><p>“Well, he looks like shit,” Giderung says behind him. There’s a vague overlap of sounds as other chatter picks up, but Geralt's voice isn’t one of them, so Vesemir ignores them. He doesn’t know how long they stand there until Geralt stops shaking, and then Vesemir leads him up to the bulk of the castle. Geralt still says nothing. He’s painfully thin, but he’s brought rations, and Vesemir helps him get his things to his rooms before going down to the kitchen to start on some sort of food. </p><p>A pair of boys are playing in the hearth fire, so he shoos them away and gets a stew going. He knows they're not real, but it makes him feel better.</p><p>“What do you think?” Gethin asks, leaning on the table beside where he’s cutting up potatoes for the stew. </p><p>Vesemir sighs. “Something’s wrong,” he mutters. </p><p>“Obviously. Elaborate for me, pup.”</p><p>Vesemir rolls his eyes and drops the chunks into the stew. “I'm well past three hundred and you were dead long before we fell. I don’t know… he’s always been soft hearted, perhaps he got caught up in things he ought not to have. He’s never once learned how to be neutral.” </p><p>Mattias laughs from the corner of the room. “The pot calls to the kettle, Vesemir.” </p><p>“I’m well aware,” Vesemir sighs, and fetches some of the venison from the morning’s hunt. If Geralt’s this thin, it means he likely didn’t have much luck on the hunt, and that doesn’t bode well. It especially doesn’t bode well that he’s back so early. “He ranges so far, I don’t like that he’s the first back. Eskel keeps to the North, Lambert to the West, but Geralt could have been anywhere from here to Nazair.” </p><p>A trio of boys run through Vesemir’s legs, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He remembers those three. Only the one is dead. </p><p>Gods, Eskel had once had such a round face. Not so much now. He’s all angles and planes. Gweld was a sweet thing too, all that red hair. And Geralt’s dark curls are gone now, but they’d been so charming and such a nightmare to deal with-</p><p>He presses his hands to his ears to block out the noise of the castle, but as always, the conversations of the dead continue. He counts his breaths, focusing on that instead. Slowly they fade away, and when he pulls his hands from his ears and opens his eyes the only thing there is the venison that needs chopping up. </p><p>It’s good stew. Geralt says nothing as they eat, but give him a tiny smile of thanks and does the dishes before going up to collapse into bed, so Vesemir considers that a success. When he takes to his own bed, he manages about five minutes of silence before he rolls over to find Varin, head bashed in, staring back at him. Most of his skull is gone, and he only has the one eye, but he still manages to look concerned.</p><p>Vesemir sighs. “What?” </p><p>Varin hums. “You need to fix him.” </p><p>“He’s been back for less than a day, Varin.” </p><p>“Fix him,” Varin insists, and his flesh starts to melt off of the bone. Vesemir sighs again, wishing his brain was a little more creative, and rolls back onto his back to stare at the squirming bodies nailed to the ceiling and crying for help until he finally manages to sleep. </p><p>Geralt still isn’t talking the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. Vesemir just takes it in stride, not bothering to push, and sends Geralt out to hunt and fish, or work with him on the castle. He keeps up a running conversation about this and that, and starts to get communication back without words. Smiles, cocked heads, clear curiosity, it’s there to see but Geralt is clearly unwell and skittish about it all. Vesemir examines his throat one day, Geralt obediently holding still for him, but there’s no damage. It’s a choice, or it’s something in his head that’s broken and he’s lost the ability. </p><p>“It’s rare,” Barmin says as they all peer at Geralt’s throat. “But it happens. Who was it from the Griffins…” </p><p>“Sulemain,” Aubry says. He’s dripping blood on Geralt’s face, not that Geralt’s noticed, since it isn’t real. “Worked out a whole nonverbal way of speaking. We had a translators journal in the library once.” </p><p>Geralt finds a slate before Vesemir finds the signed language journal, so they communicate that way for a time. Autumn starts sliding towards winter. The days are getting more and more bitter, but Geralt helps him make fast progress on repairs and they even manage to get new beds made for some of the rooms, a few new pieces of furniture to go with them. Vesemir’s careful to never let Geralt see just how bad his hallucinations are, fighting them down as much as he can, but he knows he must slip sometimes. He catches Geralt watching him, once or twice, after his eyes have wandered to follow playing children or his dead brothers sparring. </p><p>Vesemir hates it, most of the time. </p><p>It’s torture, to go out into the world. The boys know, to an extent, that he’s… shattered. That he can’t go farther than the village at the base of the trail. His head is broken, deep inside, and he can’t handle the broader world. Some days are better than others. Winter is usually fine. He has other things to focus on, keeping the boys in line. Summer is the hardest. The days grow long and the dead swarm him, chattering conversation and bleeding everywhere. </p><p>Some nights he wakes up screaming, thinking he’s back at the beginning again, buried under a pile of corpses with blood filling his mouth. Sometimes he’s awake when that happens, too. He doesn’t like drinking red wine anymore. </p><p>When the first whispers of snow on the wind reach them, Vesemir starts preparing the bedrooms, cleaning the linens and placing cords of wood by the hearths. Geralt starts cleaning up the hall and getting everything set up in the event they have guests. Finally, when there is nothing left to do but wait and hope that their shingling work went well, they sit together and have a bit of White Gull while watching the sunset. </p><p>And, then, with a rasp heavier than any he had before, Geralt croaks out, “Failed. In Blaviken.” </p><p>Vesemir doesn’t shout with relief that Geralt’s voice is returned. Instead, he feels a cold wave of dread wrap around his heart and squeeze. “How badly?” he asks, as the dead sit down in a horde around them, Gweld leaning his head on Geralt’s leg. Varin’s hand ghosts down his arm, and he can almost feel it, can almost smell Rennes leaning against the back of his chair, can almost feel the weight of the child climbing into his lap. </p><p>Geralt looks at him, eyes weighted in grief. “Bad," is all he says. </p><p>Vesemir looks back at the sunset, and together they sit with the dead as the sun slowly, slowly sinks down.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Potions (Yennefer/Jaskier, mentioned Y/G/J, M)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jaskier is drugged at a party and thankfully runs into Yennefer, which leads to a rather startling realization.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Nonconsensual drugging via spiked drink, consensual drugging to teach young people how to recognize common drugs and fight them off. Momentary fears about having been assaulted immediately assuaged.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Jaskier is 17, in his last year of study at Oxenfurt and well on his way to becoming a truly renowned bard, he is brought in with the other Bardic Arts students and sat down in a small room with a number of grim faced faculty and a great many cups of water, wine, and ale. The group all look around at each other, uncertain what’s going on, and Valdo gravitates to Jaskier’s side quietly. Jaskier decides to allow this.</p><p>“Welcome,” one of the professors says. Madame Oliwia is a dowager countess who came to the university late in life, but she’s one of the best. “Today, you will be learning about the ugliest part of your jobs.” </p><p>Jaskier looks with some trepidation at the drinks, now very aware of where this is going. Valdo looks up at him quizzically, but Madame Oliwia carries on. </p><p>"At court or abroad, there are unscrupulous types who would be only so happy to do harm to a bard, or take what you would have freely given. Young ladies are the primary target of this, but my young men must be equally vigilant, especially at court. Today we will start you on learning the common ways drinks are drugged, and how they smell, taste, and feel. You will not be allowed to set out on the road until you can correctly identify drugged drinks and food perfectly, and have gained a decent tolerance to a few of them." She adjusts her skirts, leaning forward. "Let us begin." </p><p>They all take their first drink of water. There's a faint aftertaste, and it takes about half an hour before things go horribly wrong and the world is suddenly wonderful.</p><p>Being high on the first one is… unpleasant. Actually being high is fine, but coming down and realizing just how loose he was and how easily he could have been endangered is deeply sobering. A few of his classmates are sick at the thought, and after that, the atmosphere grows much more tense. </p><p>Maiden's Folly tastes faintly of licorice and has a faint burnt odor. Son's Regret makes everyone with a cock deeply embarrassed and uncomfortable, and it smells of juniper. Heartsick, Roger's Bane, Bloodquick, Ballisto, and Temerian Night all have their own little quirks. They all work hard to memorize them, and Jaskier spends more time than he wants to think about coming down from his highs and realizing just how loose he is when his inhibitions are gone. This is deeply worrying. He grows to dread the days they test, and the horrible weight in his stomach when he comes down to find that once again, he’s been unable to keep his head. </p><p>Worse, as the others start to gain tolerance, he does not. </p><p>He never does. He can identify all of them perfectly in food or drink, but he has no tolerance at all. Eventually, they decide to let him pass anyway. </p><p>Jaskier mostly lives his life on the road. He makes a friend in a Witcher. He rarely drinks in the winter, cooks his own food in his own place at Oxenfurt during his stay there. And so he doesn’t get complacent, exactly, but there’s perhaps less worry in his life than there once was. He’s still careful, eats little at banquets and drinks mostly water or wine directly from his own pour, but still. </p><p>And then- </p><p>He’s in some back water provincial court in Temeria for Midsummer, and the wine has been flowing and the people inviting. He’s finished his set, another minstrel striking up dance tunes as he relaxes among the revelers. The court is a swirl of light and laughter, fine silks dancing in the summer evening as everyone celebrates the longest day in the year. He’s having a good day, and he’s be flirting with a charming young noble lady with beautiful curls and big blue eyes.  All in the world is well. </p><p>And then he picks up the goblet he set down for only a moment, drinks, and tastes the tell tale sour of Temerian Night.</p><p>The young noblewoman cocks her head, big eyes sweet. “Is something the matter, Jaskier? You look unwell.” </p><p>He knows how to handle this, even as the cheerful revelry around him becomes a nightmare. “I think something I ate isn’t agreeing with me. Pardon me, my lady.” </p><p>Jaskier walks away and ducks into the green room to grab his already packed lute, mind whirring. He has around seven more minutes before Temerian Night hits his system and he’ll be out of his mind and easy to catch and take advantage of. The noblewoman might not have been the one who drugged him, but someone has their eye on him, and with grim resolution he sets off at a trot and vanishes out of a side entrance of the manor. </p><p>He’s such a fucking idiot, he should <em>know</em> better by now- but that’s unimportant. He dodges around the celebrants outside the castle walls, feet already starting to stumble as he heads for the inn he’s staying at. <em>Why</em> didn’t he just insist on Geralt coming with him instead of sending him off to hunt that damn griffin four towns over, he’s getting much too old to be this cocky!  </p><p>Jaskier stumbles, and falls. His head is starting to spin, his tongue growing thick in his mouth. Temerian Night is a particularly brutal choice of potion to spike a drink with. Soon he’ll be nigh to incapacitated. Dimly he can feel panic trying to well at the edges of his mind, which is growing steadily fuzzier. </p><p>Black skirts swish to a stop before his eyes, and he looks up to see a blessedly familiar, if steadily more blurry face.</p><p>“Jaskier,” Yennefer says from very far away, sounding deeply unimpressed.</p><p>He holds up a shaking hand. “Yen’fer,” he slurs and she blinks, peering down at him closer. “Plzzz. Hlp.” </p><p>He catches the faint look of alarm on her face before the Temerian Night does its job, and he knows no more.</p><div class="center">
  <p>oOo</p>
</div>Jaskier wakes in a soft bed with light streaming in through gentle white linen curtains, stripped down to his shift and braies. He blinks at the canopy above him, slowly looking around. Yennefer is asleep beside him, in a black nightgown and with her hair pulled up in a braid, and he stares at her in mild confusion until the night slowly starts to come back to him. He remembers the party, the noblewoman… the drink. The night is mostly blurry, but he inhales sharply when that detail comes back.<p>He goes tense, staring at Yennefer and considering his state of undress, but… no. Yennefer is many things, certainly, but she wouldn’t be cruel to him in such a way. Other ways, certainly, if he asked nicely for them, but she wouldn’t take advantage of him. </p><p>She shifts, rolling over and looking at him with sleep heavy eyes. “You’re thinking very loudly,” she rasps, voice still rough with sleep.</p><p>“Thank you. We have to stop meeting like this,” he says, instead of saying that his panic is well deserved. Yennefer’s expression softens, and she reaches out to pat his cheek. </p><p>“You took the clothes off yourself. I portaled us here, and you stumbled around like an uncoordinated drowner on land, and managed to get your things off before I could really stop you. I managed to get you into bed and you passed out, and once I’d finished my work for the evening, I went to bed as well.” She bites at her lip, sighing. “You were lucky I was there, Jaskier. I was coming to find you, I’d heard you were in the area and thought we might give Geralt heart palpitations if he came back to find the both of us.” </p><p>“I was very lucky,” he agrees, feeling his hands shake a little. “I don’t… I can’t form tolerances to potions, we don’t think. If I don’t drink for a time I become such a lightweight again. I never could build up any immunity.” </p><p>Yennefer hums, sitting up. Jaskier watches her, heart aching a little as a curl of hair falls from her braid. She looks so normal like this, in her soft nightgown and her hair and face undone. She’s beautiful all the time, but he loves her most when it’s just a moment for them, a little moment of a breath. </p><p>Oh. </p><p>Oh <em>fuck</em>. </p><p>“What?” she asks, frowning at him. “Your face has gone all strange.” </p><p>“Yennefer, I do believe I’m in love with you,” he says frankly, and lets his head drop back onto the pillow. “This might get complicated.” </p><p>Yennefer stares down at him, the tiniest hint of a blush starting on her cheeks. “You’re not.” </p><p>“I am,” he says, miserable. “Gods, I’m hopeless. We’ve been running into each other for four years now, sleeping together for 3, and <em>now</em> my heart decides to get a clue.” He covers his eyes with his hands. “I’m so sorry.” </p><p>Yennefer’s hand is small and soft, but her bones are made of iron as she pulls his hands away from his face and makes him look at her square on. </p><p>“You love me,” she says carefully. </p><p>He meets her eyes, and feels his heart swell. “I love you.” </p><p>“Shit,” she says succinctly, and grabs his face to kiss him hard, braids falling to thump against him, and Jaskier pulls her onto him to hold her tighter. </p><p>It’ll be a problem for the future, he decides, heart racing as she pulls back to look at him with her eyes wild. Because they’ll fight again, and she’ll hate him one day, and he won’t get to have this. But for now he’s allowed to be a small, weak, and hopelessly human bard in love with a sorceress who loves his partner and probably won’t ever love him, and that will have to be enough. </p><p>He drowns his sorrows before they can take root, and pulls her back down to his lips.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Dragon (Aiden&Lambert&Coën, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lambert, Aiden, and Coën discover how to use tongue movements to cast Signs, and the potential for shenanigans ensues.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For those who might not know, Aiden is a Witcher 3 character. The only information we get on him is that he was a Cat, a good man, and such a good friend to Lambert that Lambert goes on a grief fueled killing spree to get revenge on Aiden's murderers. </p><p>In conclusion: they're in love. No I am not taking criticism at this time.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lambert can’t whistle. </p><p>Or, well, he <em>can</em>, but not like anyone else whistles that he’s met. Everyone purses their lips, or sticks their fingers in their mouth, and does some sort of magical something or other that makes it so that sound comes out, which he has never been able to figure out. It bothered him for years, until one day he saw someone using a reed flute, and inspiration struck. The top of his palate was curved like a reed, and he could flatten his tongue to make the same shape as the cut out for air within his mouth. Exhaling meant he made noise, starting to whistle. It was faint and higher than normal whistling, but over time he grew good at it. </p><p>And then he got to thinking, which lead to the whole mess in the first place. </p><p>“Coën,” he says to his bestest buddy and pal in the whole world, as they’re eating lunch in Novigrad one fine Spring afternoon. Coën looks up, immediately deeply suspicious. Frankly, given their lives and the amount of chaos they create with Aiden, he probably should be. “Griffins are all Signing masters.” </p><p>“Yeeeees?” Coën says, deeply wary. </p><p>“Do you think you can learn to make Signs with your tongue?” </p><p>Coën opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. He tilts his head, and frowns, thoughtful. </p><p>Aiden plops down between the two of them, looking thoroughly disheveled. “That asshole cook called me a busybody when all I was asking was about my eggs! Rude! What are we talking about?” </p><p>“Making signs with tongue shapes,” Lambert says through a mouthful of sausage. </p><p>“Oooh, fun,” Aiden says brightly, and looks at Coën, who’s still contemplating the grander world and likely will be for another ten minutes while he runs through conceptual logistics. “I see we lost him to the concept.” </p><p>“We have indeed. Potatoes?” </p><p>“Oh, thank you!” </p><p>Coën returns to the conversation a few minutes later and declares, “Technically possible, not advised.” </p><p>Aiden shoves a forkful of potatoes into his mouth. “Oh, neat,” he says around his food. “So we’re trying it, yeah?” </p><p>Coën sighs. </p><p>Lambert grins. </p><p>They’re an odd trio. They don’t usually travel together as a full group for long periods of time, but all three of them like the hunting in Novigrad when they get a chance, so they tend to meet up at least once a year. Aiden tends to hang onto Lambert like a limpet until he gets bored, and then fucks off for weeks at a time before suddenly reappearing with fat purses and ridiculous amounts of griffin feathers. (Aiden, in true kitty fashion, really likes hunting things with wings. Lambert has spent many a pleasant afternoon sitting and watching Aiden take down harpies by jumping off of cliffs onto their backs.) Coën drifts in and out of their lives, staying with them for about a month at a time before heading off to different jobs. It’s nice. </p><p>Most Witchers are solitary creatures by necessity, but the three of them suit each other well and travel with ease. They have a good thing going. It’s fucking great. </p><p>It also means they have people on hand with buckets of water in case this goes horribly. </p><p>“Couldn’t you start with Aard?!” Aiden yells from a decent distance, bucket in hand.</p><p>“No!” Lambert shouts back. Coën, with another bucket, covers his face with a hand before schooling his expression. </p><p>They’ve been working on this for about a month, and there’s been some success. Coën, being the one with the most extensive background in Signs, sits down and lectures them on how Signs work and how to start applying them differently. The short of it is that the Sign is just a way of giving Chaos an idea of what the intent is, and the intent is why the shape sticks.</p><p>"So, if you start adding the tongue shape while you do the hand shape, it SHOULD start to convince your head that that's an equally correct way to do the sign," Coën finishes one evening and Aiden holds up his hand. Coën sighs. "Yes, Aiden."</p><p>"Does this mean we're going to be able to breathe fire?"</p><p>Coën opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. He puts a hand over his face and sighs, heavily, because Lambert's eyes have just gone very wide</p><p>Which brings them back to the present. </p><p>Lambert starts practicing the tongue flick for Igni, over and over, calling to the Chaos and pulling it from his hands to his mouth. The other two are waiting with varying levels of patience, and then, suddenly- </p><p>With a sudden rush of Chaos, Lambert feels the sign take within his mouth. It feels strange, almost like there's tiny lightning dancing on his tongue, but the Sign is there and waiting.</p><p>Lambert breathes out hard, and the Igni catches, flames rushing out of his mouth and gusting into the air. It stops as soon as he stops breathing and cancels the Sign, and he whoops with delight.</p><p>“I’M A FUCKING DRAGON!” He shouts in glee. </p><p>Coën sighs as Aiden throws up his arms and cheers. “Oh no. This is going to be a problem.” </p><p>Lambert breathes fire again another ten times just because he can, and beams. This is going to be <em>great</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Lost (Geralt & Cat!OMC, T, Hunt #4/End)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Geralt reluctantly arrives at the Dyn Marv caravan to do the right thing and receives a warning. (Hunt #4, End)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Dasha of Stygga and Maribor is an OC who you might recognize from either Lacebound or A Beginner's Guide to Exploiting the Kaedweni Tax Code for Fun and Profit. If you're interested in more of him, please check out those two pieces. Dasha is genderqueer and uses he/him pronouns.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Dyn Marv caravan is hard to track down, but eventually Geralt finds it winding through the edge ofRedania and Temeria. Geralt gets the location from some locals and heads into the woods, more than a little on edge but willing to try. He gets to the point where he can smell the campfire and hear movement and stops, saying in a regular speaking voice, “I’ve business with the School of the Cat. I’ll wait here for someone to speak with me.” </p><p>There’s a faint pause in chatter, and Geralt stays put, sword not drawn and feeling more than a little tense. The minutes stretch on and on, but he stays patiently still, and at last, a Cat melts out from the treeline to examine him. </p><p>The Cat is as tall as him, willowy in build and all elegant angles, his long hair silver blond and his eyes Cat green-gold. He's more pretty than handsome, with high cheekbones and a sharply pointed jaw, and his nose is long and thin like the rest of him. He's dressed down into casual clothes, Koviri wrap shirt and Nazairi pantaloons, and shoved through his belt sash are a set of beautiful knives with inlaid pearl on the scabbards. A long falchion is sheathed along with the rest.</p><p>"A Wolf, come to say hello," he says, and his voice is sweetly musical. "What an unexpected surprise. Judging by that lovely white hair, you must be Geralt of Rivia."</p><p>Geralt inclines his head in the slightest bow. "I am. And yourself?"</p><p>"Grandmaster Cat Adept Dasha of Stygga and Maribor," Dasha says, flicking a long fingered hand. His pointed nails flash in the moonlight. "Current head of the Cat School." </p><p>That's a surprise. Geralt hadn't anticipated the Cat Head himself to step out. But really, what does it matter? He has a job to do. </p><p>He bows slightly again. "Grandmaster Adept Dasha, afraid I'm coming as the bearer of bad news. I just came from the fa Haryse lands in Aedirn. Murrin of the Cats and Bertilak of the Bear school were killed there not long ago by hunters. I brought you back Murrin's medallion, and killed his hunter in your name." He takes the medallion from his belt and holds it out. </p><p>Dasha takes it, expressing turning somber. The medallion looks small in his hand, and he gently rubs a thumb over the snarling face. “You’re certain it was Murrin?” </p><p>“I never met him, but I knew Bertilak, and both were given by name. I found the body- he had Cat colored eyes that I could still see,” Geralt says, reaching into his pocket to pull out the scrap of paper and handing it over. Dasha reads it quickly, mouth tightening, and he sighs heavily before handing it back. </p><p>“Tragic,” Dasha says, and sounds as if he means it. “You have done us a great service, Geralt of Rivia. Murrin was well liked, and still very young. He will be deeply missed. Will you dine with us, and tell us of his murderer’s death? I understand if you wish to pass.” </p><p>Geralt hesitates. “Were you…” </p><p>Dasha shakes his head. “I was in exile at the time of the sacking of Kaer Morhen. I was made Adept and put in line to become Grandmaster before Treyse, who ousted me, and I spent time in the far south of Nilfgaard until word came of my brothers idiocy. I returned to the School in ruins, and eventually took command of the caravan. I was not among those who led your school to the slaughter, and no one will harm you if you join us this evening.” </p><p>Geralt nods his agreement, and once he’s retrieved Roach Dasha leads him through the trees to a circle of caravans and tents. His skin prickles at the sight of 10 full grown Cats, but they all look more stricken than murderous, so he takes a seat by the fire as Dasha returns to a fine, cleverly carved folding chair. </p><p>“It’s true then,” one of the Cats says, his voice a soft rasp. “Murrin ka Edemir is dead?” </p><p>“I’m sorry to bear the news to you,” Geralt says, with genuine regret. “It was a senseless death, but I killed his murderer to spare you from having to take the time to hunt him.” </p><p>Someone passes him a flask, and a sniff reveals it to be White Gull. He nods to the older looking Cat who handed it to him, and takes a drink. </p><p>“Tell us,” one of the others urges. </p><p>Geralt does, doing his best to fill in all of the details for them. When he reaches the burning of the poppies and the immolation of Roland fa Haryse, there’s a rumbling growl of approval from everyone in the group. </p><p>“Nasty business,” one of the Cats says once he’s finished, shaking his head. “Poor man, he was a good one.” </p><p>“Very sweet, really,” another agrees, this one with only one eye. “Never thought he’d be one to die young, he was proper cautious. Wolf, here, have sommat to eat, you’re skin and bones.” </p><p>The Cats reminisce about their fallen brother while Geralt eats quietly, and the drinking and singing starts not long after that. Geralt starts nodding off fast, the exhaustion of traveling wearing on him. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, and opens them again to find the fire has died down some. Dasha is walking over, and offers him a hand up. Geralt takes it. </p><p>“I promise nothing untoward,” Dasha says quietly, “but it would likely be best if you stayed in my caravan tonight. You’re clearly exhausted.” </p><p>Geralt hesitates, but nods. </p><p>Dasha’s wagon is as simple as the rest, with a canvas roof and tall wooden walls. It’s wide enough for two men to sleep comfortably, and there are nets hung on the walls for more storage than just the box on the tongue of the wagon. Everything is neat and tidy, and Dasha’s bedding is solidly comfortable. He fusses with a few things, sorting out pillows, and then nods Geralt down in once his boots and armor is off. Those go up into the watertight box up front. </p><p>“I’m certain this is little like Kaer Morhen,” Dasha says, settling down beside him. Any other time, Geralt knows he’d be paranoid, but his exhaustion has truly sunk in. He’s tired and sore and sad, and this Cat has so far only been kind to him. “We manage, but it’s not exactly a castle.” </p><p>Geralt burrows into the furs and blankets, feeling his aches ease a little. “Kaer Morhen’s not much of one now either,” he says sleepily. “Most times we sleep two to a room. Sometimes all in a pile. The walls barely keep out the snow, anymore.” </p><p>“It’s so damaged?” </p><p>“There’s only a few left to care for it,” Geralt says, looking up at Dasha. His eyes are luminous in the faint light. “Kaer Morhen is lost. Stygga is lost. Kaer Seren, Gorthur Gvaed, Haern Caduch, we’ve been stripped of homeland and hearths. At least the Cat’s will have their brothers here.” </p><p>Dasha hums, and Geralt sees he has Murrin’s medallion in his hand. “We’ve lost much, cousin. Far too much.” </p><p>“That we have,” Geralt agrees, and the last thing he sees before he sleeps is Dasha looking out of the caravan, expression somber in the moonlight. </p><p>In the morning, he eats a decent meal of eggs, cheese, meat, and bread before he saddles Roach and swings up onto her back. Dasha is in comfortable clothes again, this time a simple linen shirt with a massive swirling skirt in Skelligen plaid, a shawl over his shoulders. </p><p>“I can’t promise we’ll be so friendly if you make a return visit,” he says as Geralt prepares to head out. “Though Lambert is always welcome, he’s very entertaining. And perhaps if you send word ahead we can see if there will be space for you. There are not so many of us that we can choose to be overly picky with our allies these days.” He hesitates, and then says quietly, “There are rumors of war to the South. I’ve heard word from some of my brothers that the Nilfgaardian army is likely to move towards Cintra in a year or so, to add her to the gems in the White Flames crown. Keep safe, if you can.” </p><p>Geralt’s hands tighten on the reins. “Where will you go?” </p><p>“North. As far as we can. We intend to aim for Poviss, for now.” Dasha looks back at the Cats breaking camp, and at last Geralt can see the weight of years that presses on him despite his youthful looks. “All that lives must die, Geralt of Rivia. Even legends. Even myths. But we are not dead yet. Travel safely, cousin.” </p><p>“Safe journeys, Grandmaster.” </p><p>Dasha steps back, and Geralt rides into the trees. Rumors may prove to be nothing more, and yet… </p><p>He’ll leave it be for now. Perhaps he’ll head to Caingorn, collecting Jaskier along the way. He hasn’t been there in a long time, and there are rumors of a dragon in the mountains. Geralt and Roach break through the trees and onto the road, and Geralt points himself towards Oxenfurt. </p><p>“All that lives must die, but we are not dead yet,” he mutters to Roach. The wind rustles along, bringing with it the memory of the Heart of the Forest and the Okadren, and he takes a deep breath of the clean air. “Let’s go, Roach. Plenty of time to get lost looking for hunts along the way.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>End of The Hunt</b>
  </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Feral (Aiden/Lambert&Coen, M)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lambert's husband is a Cat who sometimes thinks he's an actual cat. This is less of an issue than it appears. Coen puts up with so much nonsense.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: a lot of blood, pre-arranged use of Axii.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“It’s been an hour,” Coën says, and he’s clearly fretting. “Don’t you think we should, I don’t know… try to get him down?” </p>
<p>Lambert doesn’t look up from his book, which has been recovered to look like some sort of fine bestiary but is almost certainly one of his ridiculously convoluted romance novels. “He’ll get down when he wants to, there’s no point trying to drag him out of a tree. He’ll just scratch us and then we’ll have to test for rabies.” </p>
<p>“Aiden doesn’t have <em>rabies</em>, Lambert, you asshole.” Coën looks up the tree again, and catches brilliant yellow-green eyes staring intently back. “Besides, we’re immune. Aiden! Come on, come down!” </p>
<p>Lambert turns a page of his book and makes a faint noise of approval. “That’s right, honey, you tell him,” he mutters, thoroughly engrossed. “He’s Redanian nobility anyway, you could do better.” </p>
<p>There’s a faint rustling in the tree, and Lambert looks up at the branches. Coën watches Aiden climb up to a higher bough and settle in, eyes still extremely thin-slitted and mouth hanging open just enough to show off just how long his fangs are. At least his swords and knives are still at the base of the tree, because otherwise they’d be keeping a broad distance in the event of flying murder implements. Coën groans.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what you’re so upset about,” Lambert says, watching as Aiden sprawls out on the bough with his arms and legs dangling down. “He’ll snap out of it eventually and be embarrassed and then we get to tease him. And this means that we get to relax for a while since we can’t really go anywhere.” </p>
<p>Coën makes a vague, upset noise, pouting at him. Lambert just grins, and Coën groans, finally sitting down next to him with great reluctance.</p>
<p>“Tell me about your stupid book,” he grouses, and Lambert’s grin broadens. </p>
<p>“I thought you’d never ask. So it starts with this milkmaid-” </p>
<p>Lambert is about a quarter of the way through describing how the milkmaid has just become a Countess through a series of wildly improbable events when Coën catches a glimpse of movement in the tree. It takes everything in his power to ignore it, and Aiden slinks out of the tree and around them to go vanish into the bushes. Lambert breaks off, watching him go. </p>
<p>“I think we’re having venison for dinner.” </p>
<p>“He didn’t take his swords, again,” Coën sighs. “He’s <em>your</em> husband, you get to hold him down and wash the blood off. I’m not eating with him looking like the aftermath of a roll around in a charnel house.” </p>
<p>“It is kinda hot when he takes them down with his teeth,” Lambert says dreamily. </p>
<p>“You,” Coën says brightly, “are both incredibly gross and deserve each other. Tell me about this Countess milkmaid.” </p>
<p>Lambert tells him about the Countess milkmaid and has just explained her new attraction to a debonair and useless Duke when a doe comes sailing through the trees and crashes into the ground on the opposite side of the clearing. Lambert and Coën blink at the deer, and then turn to look at the direction it came from. Aiden comes trotting out of the trees, absolutely soaked in blood and beaming. He makes a beeline for them and Lambert sighs as Aiden smushes their faces together, purring loud as he rubs his cheek on Lambert’s. Coën grimaces at the smear of blood that gets left. </p>
<p>“I’ll do the laundry and get the deer ready,” he sighs, and Lambert pats his leg. </p>
<p>“Taking the easy job, I see.” </p>
<p>“Again, <em>your</em> husband, you get to try and get him clean.” Coën gets up to go string up the deer, and Lambert turns his attention to his loudly purring husband, who’s looking at him with his pupils blown wide. </p>
<p>Lambert can’t quite help the swell of affection as he tousles Aiden’s hair and gets an increased purr in response. Aiden slow blinks at him, smiling, and Lambert slow blinks back. The purring increases in volume by a factor of ten. </p>
<p>“Come on, you terror,” he says, “let’s get you washed up before you start to stink any more than you already do.” </p>
<p>Aiden has long since given his okay on being Axii’d when he’s gone out of his mind, both for others' safety and his own pride, because nothing is quite so embarrassing than coming back to find you’ve spent most of your time out of your mind trying desperately to avoid a bath. Lambert tries to use it sparingly, and never has when Aiden’s in his right mind. But right now, running on instincts that don’t really belong to him and only vaguely aware of the world outside of trying to cuddle with Lambert and Coën while still soaked in blood from proving how good he is as a hunter… yeah, Axii is the friend to have. </p>
<p>Aiden willingly strips down out of his clothes (yet another thing that had been a problem when the madness first started, though they’ve mostly managed to keep him wearing them these days by developing a hard to get out of button system that Aiden’s brain fizzles out of trying to figure out) and then he realizes that they’re headed towards a stream. Lambert barely catches him to Axii, and marches his placid charge down to the water to dunk him and wash off the worst of it. Once that’s done he gets Aiden dried off and marches him back up to the camp, gets him clothed in a comfortable long tunic and loose trousers, and releases the Axii.</p>
<p>Aiden immediately climbs into his lap, purring loudly, and Lambert just settles back against the log he’s sat against and decides to just enjoy this as Coën curses out the world as he guts the deer. He absently kisses the side of Aiden’s head, running his fingers through his hair. </p>
<p>Sure, it’s weird that sometimes his husband forgets he’s a person, but he’s seen weirder shit. Besides, it should wear off in- </p>
<p>Aiden’s head jerks back as he blinks a few times, looking into Lambert’s face. “Oh. Huh. Hi!” </p>
<p>“Hey, Aiden,” Lambert says, endlessly fond. </p>
<p>“Aiden!” Coën barks. “Come help me with this.” </p>
<p>“Did I catch a deer for you again?” Aiden asks, delighted. “Did I provide for you terrible weaklings who clearly can’t hunt to save your lives and bring you trophies to eat?”</p>
<p>“You did.” </p>
<p>“Awesome.”</p>
<p>“You also got a bath, because you took it down with your teeth again.” </p>
<p>“Less awesome, still fun though!”</p>
<p>Aiden kisses him sweetly and hops up, bounding over to go help Coën with the deer. Lambert watches him go, grinning, and picks up his book again as Aiden starts talking a mile a minute. Time to find out what exactly the Milkmaid Countess is going to do about her situation.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Wish (Eskel & Original Succubus Character, Wholesome, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Eskel accidentally gets a reputation for granting succubus wishes. It's more wholesome than he expected.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: one mention of casual sex between Eskel and the succubus. Otherwise Extremely Wholesome.</p><p>For those of you who don't know, Eskel in the games canonically got it on with a succubus while taking fisstech, which is like, the funniest thing in the world to me. Love this guy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re Eskel, right? I hear you grant wishes.” </p><p>Eskel blinks. </p><p>Up until about ten seconds ago, he was alone in the woods, and now he has a succubus who’s slipped out of the trees to sit across from him at his campfire, eyes huge and excited. She’s extremely pretty, with a cloud of curly black hair and warm dark skin that melts smoothly into the more goatlike attributes, and her horns are frankly adorable and banded in gold. He blinks again. </p><p>“Uh,” he says. “I’m really not sure what you mean, mistress.” </p><p>“<em>Well</em>,” she says, in the tones of someone divulging particularly salacious gossip, “my cousin’s best friend’s sister’s niece’s friend said that you granted wishes to succubuses if they don’t go around sleeping with people.” </p><p>Eskel blinks yet again. This has been a very bizarre few minutes. “I would love to know where your cousin’s best friend’s sister’s niece’s friend got this information, because I have no idea what you’re talking about. I mean. I’ll help you, if I can, but I’m not a djinn. I can’t grant wishes or anything like that. I’m a Witcher, we’re a little low on the wish granting department.” </p><p>“Oh,” she says, sounding a little disappointed.</p><p>“Why?” he asks, before he can think about it. “What was your wish?” </p><p>The succubus beams at him. “I want to go to the ocean!” </p><p>That. Was really not what he was expecting. </p><p>“What’s stopping you?” he asks, curious in spite of himself. </p><p>She looks a little (ohgodsdammit) sheepish, and twists a curl around her finger. “Well it’s not any fun when you go by yourself, is it? I always hear stories about people going to the ocean and it’s with someone! And there’s running on the beach, and fishing sometimes, and looking at the waves, and the stars going on forever and ever, and sometimes boating out into the deeper waters to go see the really big fish-that-aren’t-fish. So I want to go to the ocean, but I want… I want to do all that sort of thing.” She looks up at him with her big eyes and smiles. “I just think it sounds nice. Don’t you?”</p><p>Oh, no. Ohhhh no. </p><p>Fuck, Lambert is going to make fun of him for this forever. </p><p>Well, fuck it, who cares, Lambert already makes fun of him for everything he does. What’s one more thing?</p><p>“Well,” he says, “if you don’t mind stopping on occasion for me to do work, I’m headed towards the coast anyway. I could escort you out to the ocean.” </p><p>He’s not. He’s supposed to be headed inland to travel up along the Pontar. But her eyes light up in delight, her mouth falling open in a little thrilled ‘o’, and fuuuck she’s just so cute. He wants to ruffle her hair. “Really?!” </p><p>“Really.” </p><p>“Yes!” She whoops, jumping up and throwing her arms in the air. “This is the best! Oh! Oh I’m so sorry, I’m so rude, I haven’t told you my name. I’m Aniki. Sorry, I should have introduced myself right off, oops.” She gasps. “Do you think we’ll find urchins in the tide pools!? Oooh, or the little stinging things with the wavy arms! The ananenen. Ananenonmes.”  </p><p>Eskel props his chin in his hand and grins. This might be fun yet. “Anemones.” </p><p>“Yes, those!”</p><p>Aniki is like the other succubi he’s met, and changes her form to that of a tall black goat with curly horns for traveling and keeping up with him when he’s riding, or a dark skinned human woman in comfortable druid garb when she’s pretending to be human. She seems quite young, constantly asking questions about different plants and animals and desperately curious about Eskel’s potions and even more fascinated about the toxicity lines that come from them. She mostly feeds in the towns they pass, though Eskel indulges her once in a while because he is A) only so good of a man and B) not so much of an asshole as taunt her when he’s in need of getting off. She’s a fun bed partner, though she’s definitely more interested in the wider world than eating, which is refreshing and has him looking at the world with fresh eyes. </p><p>They make good time traveling to the coast, and Eskel watches Aniki’s face as they get closer. When they hear the first seabird calling she stops dead, eyes going huge. </p><p>“Is that…” </p><p>“That’s a sea gull,” he says, smiling. “Come on, up in the saddle with me.” </p><p>He pulls her up easily and urges Scorpion into a lope. Aniki’s practically shaking with excitement, and as they pass from the treeline out to the grassy scrubland leading out to the roll of early dunes. They crest the edge of a sandy bank and she gasps out loud, grabbing his hand. </p><p>“There,” she says, stunned. “That’s. That’s the ocean.” </p><p>“It is,” he says, fond, and Aniki scrambles down and goes running towards the surf, melting in to her real form as she goes. Eskel leaves Scorpion ground tied and follows her, watching as she whoops with delight and runs along the edge of the water. She’s smiling so wide, and he decides this was entirely worth it as she scoops up a perfect small shell and gasps out loud. </p><p>“Eskel! Eskel, look, shells!” She spins around, beaming. “And the water is so warm and so cold all at once, and it goes <em>forever</em>!” </p><p>“Goes really deep, too,” he says, and bends to take off his boots and roll up his pant legs. “Come on, let’s wade out a bit.” </p><p>Aniki does an excited little dance, bouncing up and down, and when Eskel holds out his hand for her to take she does it again, and tugs him out into the waves. She shrieks when he splashes her and immediately gets him back for it, making him sputter and laugh. They sleep at the edge of the forest, close enough to hear the crash of the waves, and the next day travel out to a nearby town. </p><p>It’s got a nice port, sailors and travelers coming and going from long ships and a thriving market. The whole place is charming, save the smell of fish, and Aniki goes in her human form and buys a new dress with wide skirts in the current style and flowers that she threads into her hair. Eskel fetches them lunch and they go out to a nearby rocky point to watch for the whales and serpents in the area. They see a mother and calf, and a massive serpent swim by, the whale’s tails rising from the surface and the serpent’s great fin leaving a great wake. They find shells and eat lunch by the water, watch the stars come out. Eskel tells her the stories of the constellations that he remembers from his childhood, and watches her soak them all in with huge eyes. Eskel takes a few harpy and siren contracts, and even gets paid for them, which is a nice change of pace, and in the mornings Aniki drags him down to look at the tide pools and the tiny lives in them. Aniki gets a little book to draw the creatures in them, excitedly showing him her beginner’s bestiary of tide pool creatures, and he can’t help hugging her tight. </p><p>“I want to stay here forever,” she says after about a week while they’re eating lunch at a tavern with a view of the ocean, and Eskel feels a little spark of pride. “Do you think I could? I could work in a brothel here! And there’s always the sailors, they seem like they’d like me.” </p><p>Given the way at least three of them are looking at her right now (Eskel takes a moment to give them a polite but intense <em>try me, asshole</em> glare that sends them quickly looking back at their tankards when they spot his eyes), Eskel doesn’t doubt that she’d do very well and says as much. </p><p>Aniki beams at him. “Will you help me get settled before you go?” </p><p>“Absolutely, Aniki.” </p><p>When he rides out of town it’s with Scorpion’s bridle decorated with shells, and a small shell hanging next to his medallion, Aniki cheerfully waving to him from her new rooms. He smiles as he heads back inland, running his fingers over the shell. He might not be a djinn, but he’s glad he’s granted this particular wish. </p><p>He makes it all the way back to Kaedwen before a succubus pops out of the trees. “Hi! I heard you grant wishes!” </p><p>Eskel covers his eyes and starts to laugh.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I would die for Aniki the Succubus, and I just need you all to know that she goes on to be an early naturalist and writes extensive papers on the lives of creatures in tide pools.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Monster (Geralt & Jaskier, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jaskier develops an interest in drowners, leading Geralt to show him one of the funnier parts of monster hunting.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier is a great many things, but chief among them is curious. Geralt appreciates this about him, most of the time. Other times, it’s less of a virtue and more of a headache, because once Jaskier gets it in his head to look into something it’s very hard to drag him away from it. He fixates with wild glee and there’s no escape, which means eventually Geralt learns about whatever he’s curious about by virtue of Jaskier talking about it endlessly. He kind of likes it when his senses aren’t suffering from overload.</p>
<p>So far Geralt has learned about the weaving techniques of Nazair, how to make Toussainti puff pastry, the common number of spine bones in Pontar river fish (64, by the way), the precise legality of printing erotic poetry in Temeria and exporting it to Redania (dubious but possible, and Temeria’s loser laws around pornography are a godsend, according to Jaskier), why the color blue rarely appears in nature, how sea urchins move, braiding techniques for curled and textured hair, the tuning strategies of the Skelligen harp, and a thousand and one other such small and bizarre little questions. And this week, Jaskier has fixated on drowners. </p>
<p>“Why?” Geralt muttered as Jaskier eagerly read through his bestiary. “All the monsters on the continent and you have to pick the most boring.” </p>
<p>“They’re a decent portion of your work! I’m curious how they function!” Jaskier turns a page. “Can we dissect one so I can look at the liver?” </p>
<p>“No.” </p>
<p>“Why not?” </p>
<p>“Because the liver is worth more than you are, so we’re selling that instead of letting you play with it.” </p>
<p>“You’re so rude.” </p>
<p>“Hmm.” </p>
<p>Jaskier sticks his tongue out at him and returns his attention to the bestiary. Geralt considers him for a bit, and then says, “You know how cats chase reflected light? Like when you take a mirror and angle it so the light lands on the ground, they’ll run after it?” </p>
<p>Jaskier looks up, curious. “Yes?” </p>
<p>“Drowners will too.” </p>
<p>Jaskier’s eyes widen. “Geralt,” he says slowly, “are you going to show me how to play with drowners?” </p>
<p>“D’you want to?” </p>
<p>Jaskier’s eyes gleam with fervent delight. “<em>Yes</em>.” </p>
<p>Geralt’s mouth twitches into a grin. </p>
<p>Drowners being the obnoxious little beasts that they are, it’s not hard to find a contract for some in a lake with a high ridge perfect for watching. Jaskier’s indignant to discover that Geralt has a shard of carefully wrapped mirror that he could have been using to do his hair this entire time, but stops complaining when Geralt shows him the quality of the glass is poor and heavily spotted. It’s a useful piece for some hunts, but less useful for actual use as a mirror. The day is thankfully sunny, and Jaskier sits down cross legged next to Geralt and watches as Geralt aims the reflective mirror down at the water. The light stops in about the center, and a fin breaks out of the water before disappearing again. </p>
<p>“Watch,” Geralt instructs, and wiggles the mirror. The light dances on the water, and there’s a sudden thrash of interest as a couple of drowners rush towards it and immediately collide. Jaskier squirms, giggling outright. Geralt flicks the light away, slow enough the drowner’s eyes will be able to follow it, and more of them surge out of the depths to chase after it. They claw and climb over each other as he flicks it back towards the center, leading them all on a merry chase. </p>
<p>“I love this so much,” Jaskier says, positively gleeful. “Geralt. Geralt this is delightful.” </p>
<p>“Kaer Morhen has a lake,” Geralt says, wiggling the mirror to make the light dance and the drowners thrash. “There’s tons of them in there, and we used to have a big mirror that we brought out to use like this and watch them. It’s good training too, you would play with the light to get them to the surface and then someone would take them out with a boat.” </p>
<p>“That seems just entirely too sensible,” Jaskier says, delighted. “Oh! Oh, can we do that!? The pond’s deep enough that you’d need a boat to get all of them.”</p>
<p>Geralt hums, counting the heads and fins. Six is a lot for a small pond. “No, it’d be a hassle to get a boat.” Jaskier slumps, disappointed, but Geralt adds, “But you could use it to lure them onto the shore.” </p>
<p>“Yesssss. Are you sure you can’t keep one for me-” </p>
<p>“<em>No,</em> Jaskier. Do you even know how to do dissections?” </p>
<p>“Well you just cut things open and poke at them, right?” </p>
<p>Geralt sighs. “If you take a few courses in natural philosophy while you’re at Oxenfurt this winter I’ll consider it in the spring.” </p>
<p>“This is why you’re my favorite,” Jaskier informs him happily, and makes grabbing hands at the mirror. “Gimme! I wanna play with the murder fish.” </p>
<p>Geralt reminds himself that Jaskier is all of 22, practically a child, and hands over the mirror. The fiendish little giggle that Jaskier lets out is painfully cute, and Geralt leads him to it as he heads down to the shore. The pond is still thrashing with the drowners, Jaskier clearly having fun leading them around the edges and back to the center again. He keeps wiggling it to make them claw at each other, which is frankly hilarious. Geralt gets to a good place on the shore and waves up at Jaskier, who obediently turns the mirror directly to Geralt’s feet. </p>
<p>Six very worked up drowners burst out of the water to pounce on the light, and Geralt takes three heads off with one swing, which is just too damn cool. The other three are easily dispatched, and he looks down at the bloody bank to see the light dancing back and forth across his feet. </p>
<p>He steps on it. It darts away. </p>
<p>For all of two seconds he considers just letting it be a fluke, but, what the hell. </p>
<p>He jumps to where the light is again, and he can hear Jaskier’s whoop of laughter as he chases after the light, grinning wide enough to split his face as he lets Jaskier lead him around the pond at full speed. He finally gives up and jogs up to the cliff, where Jaskier has fallen over laughing. </p>
<p>“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he says fondly. “Come on. I guess it wouldn’t hurt you to learn how they work, from a distance. And I mean from a distance, I’m not buying you new clothes if you get viscera on those.” </p>
<p>Jaskier beams at him, and bounds along after him as they head back down to the pond. </p>
<p>All in all, a pleasant day.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Hmmm (Geralt and Jaskier, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Geralt and Jaskier start to communicate.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt’s voice is a problem. </p><p>Or, perhaps not a problem, per se, but certainly an issue. </p><p>Lambert had been Lambert about it, and Eskel had been Eskel. Lambert had given him shit and mocked him, but brought him honey for his throat and kept making non sequiturs to try and startle him into speaking, get him out of his head. It had worked a couple times, too, which was nice. Eskel had just bundled him up and held him, and had yet to stop sneaking into Geralt’s room to hold him. Which, point of fact was nice, but didn’t fix the problem that Geralt couldn’t really talk.</p><p>But then Spring came, and with it, the Path. Geralt left late and went as far South as he could tolerate, knowing he wouldn’t be wanted in Kaedwen for quite some time. He spent hours carefully running through the exercises he had done with Lambert and Eskel with Roach, practicing conversations to try and unstop his heavy tongue. It worked, to a degree. </p><p>He still choked on his words, so he became more economical with them. He learned the value of a good stare and a gruff phrase, and he was paid only slightly less than he should have been if he could haggle properly, but it worked out and he wasn’t starving, so that was good enough. Things continued on like this for several years, until he finds himself in Posada, short on coin and saddled with a bard. </p><p>He isn’t totally certain how he wound up with the bard. Frankly, he’s a little confused about it. </p><p>More confusing, the bard does not stop talking. And doesn’t seem to have an issue with Geralt not talking. Which is unexpected. </p><p>It is kind of nice, though. </p><p>But. Well. </p><p>It’s been a long time since Geralt was around humans for any real length of time. Oh, he’s in cities and towns plenty, but there’s not much socializing that happens then. It’s not like he has human friends. He barely has a brotherhood, after the destruction of the schools. But for all his awkwardness, and fuck, he is definitely awkward, Jaskier stays. Jaskier, for some inconceivable reason, has decided he’s worth spending time with. </p><p>The kid has absolutely no idea how to stay alive, though, and is almost irritatingly wide eyed and naive about the world, so Geralt decides to take it upon himself to teach him enough to keep him at the very least <em>alive</em> whenever he decides traveling with a Witcher isn’t wise. Jaskier gets dragged along to check his traps, and Geralt shows him in simple, clear terms how to build them, where to make merciful cuts. The creatures shouldn’t suffer. Jaskier hates it, but he understands, and that’s the important bit. He’s competent with a knife and good at dressing the animals, even if he doesn’t like them dying, and frankly the skins he takes are good quality and will fetch good prices. </p><p>He can do hard things. It takes some coaxing and teaching, but he can do them, and he seems to take it as a personal reward whenever he manages to get Geralt smiling. </p><p>Geralt starts to become… perhaps less savage, is the easiest way to put it. He eats his food cooked again, with seasonings that Jaskier begs for at markets, and he goes to markets to see things and take Jaskier around people. He starts caring for his hair again instead of just dragging it back from his face. He takes better care of his armor. Talks more, not just to Roach, because Jaskier is always listening even as he talks. He uses “hmm” in various tones for a lot of it, but he does try. Allows himself to be seen in society. Deals with the goddamn Toss a Coin song because it’s doing wonders for Witcher’s reputations. </p><p>He’s… happy? Maybe? </p><p>He still doesn’t like staying in towns too long. It makes his throat close up and he hates being watched, the paranoia welling up and leaving him an anxious, snappy mess. So they mostly camp, far away from people, where Geralt can control his tiny fragment of the world a little and calm down. </p><p>It’s one such night that they’re unpacking when Jaskier clears his throat. Geralt looks over at him to see Jaskier standing, rubbing his fingers in his nervous way. He does it to keep from pulling at his clothes, Geralt’s realized. He likes the feeling of the fabrics he wears but someone has trained him not to fuss with them.</p><p>“Geralt, do you… do you want me to go?” </p><p>Geralt stares, baffled and a little alarmed.</p><p>“I mean, I understand,” Jaskier says, shifting on his feet. It makes him look very young, and Geralt is suddenly struck that Jaskier is only 18, barely an adult. “I’m noisy, and I can’t ever really turn it off, and you don’t really… talk back, much, so I don’t know if you hate me or not or you’re just tolerating me and I can, I really can go if you want, I don’t-” </p><p>Geralt holds up a hand and Jaskier winces, stopping mid sentence. Geralt blinks at him, and says, “I… can’t. Much.” </p><p>Jaskier cocks his head. “Can’t what, much?” </p><p>Geralt feels his throat close up, and points to his throat. Jaskier blinks, and then his eyes go wide.  </p><p>“You can’t talk much?” Geralt nods. Jaskier’s eyes widen, and he sits down on a log. “Oh. That explains a few things. Is it- is it your throat?” </p><p>Geralt shakes his head, and then taps his skull twice. </p><p>“Someone hurt your head?” </p><p>Geralt taps it again, and Jaskier’s expression sobers. </p><p>“Someone hurt your mind,” he says, quiet, and Geralt nods. </p><p>He hesitates, humming in frustration, before he reaches in to grab his pen and his most recent journal. It’s nearly full anyway, he can spare the pages. He carefully writes, <em>stay. louder but better with you.</em> He shoves the journal over to Jaskier, who looks down at the words for a long time, mouth wobbling a little. </p><p>“Oh,” he says, his voice small. “Alright. I’ll stay.” </p><p>A thread of panic that Geralt hadn’t even realized was there vanishes, and he nods, taking back the book. Jaskier watches him for a bit. </p><p>“So you don’t hate me being loud,” he says, carefully. </p><p>Geralt shoots him a look that says, very clearly, <em>don’t push your luck.</em> Jaskier smiles, even if it is still a little shaky. </p><p>“Okay,” he says, and stands up to stretch. “I guess I’ll just have to get fluent in another language. What shall I call it? White-Wolf-ese? Elder wasn’t too bad, and I should have an easy time with this one since most of it seems to be “dammit Jaskier” and “what the fuck do you mean, spices go on food”. You’re a heathen, you know that? Absolutely a heathen. You don’t even like tea.” </p><p>“Gross,” Geralt mutters, lips twitching as he holds back a smile. </p><p>“I said what I said, did I not?! A heathen!” And with that Jaskier’s off, talking brightly about this and that as Geralt works to get the camp together and nudges him into work. It’s not perfect. But they’ll get there, he thinks, and hums agreement as he goes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For my jaybird. I promise we'll go to the coast.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Silver (Geralt & Jaskier, M)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jaskier deals with the consequences of a monsters actions.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW for kidnapping, murder in self defense</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time Jaskier is 26 and has been on the road for some 8 years, he has very little compunctions about doing whatever he needs to in order to stay alive. This is a good trait for a bard to have, honestly, and Geralt has wholeheartedly encouraged it. Jaskier has learned a great deal about the fine art of escaping bandits or killing them, what towns to stop in and what towns to make beat a hasty retreat from, hunting, trapping, skinning, blade maintenance, herbal medicines, and haggling. He likes to think that he’s become a relatively accomplished man, and whenever Geralt decides that Jaskier can do the haggling at the marketplace he fairly glows with pride. </p><p>He’s terrible at gambling, though, he’ll leave that to Geralt. Geralt not only likes it, he’s extremely good at it. Jaskier likes Gwent as much as the next man but he really cannot gamble at all. </p><p>They’re in Aedirn this year, not Jaskier’s favorite place to start with but moderately acceptable. Jaskier is willing to tolerate this. Geralt gets a contract for nekkers, which Jaskier is happy to not join him on, and stays in the town. He plunks himself down in a tavern and makes a decent amount of coin, which immediately goes up to their room. He comes back down and decides to take a walk, and that’s when it goes wrong. </p><p>He’s strolling along through the village when a man walks up, smiling. “Ah, bard!” </p><p>Jaskier smiles at him, charming. “That would indeed be me!” </p><p>“I’ve heard you travel with a Witcher, the White Wolf. Is that so?” </p><p>“It is indeed,” Jaskier says, brightening. </p><p>“Excellent,” the man says, and everything goes black. </p><p>When Jaskier comes too, the first thing he thinks is that he really needs to talk to Geralt about finding some sort of locator charm to stick in his damn boots so the next time this inevitably happens Geralt can just track him down. The second thing he thinks is, aw, fuck. </p><p>“You’re awake,” the man says, and Jaskier looks blearily around. They’re in the woods, with a small fire going, and he’s got his hands tied behind his back. He sits up properly, head aching a little, and frowns. His virtue knife has been carelessly tossed by the fire, but looks fine at least.</p><p>“What’s going on?” </p><p>“You’re bait, little bard!” </p><p>Jaskier blinks. “Bait,” he says flatly. </p><p>“Yessss. For the Witcher!” </p><p>Jaskier’s heard some stupid plots in his life, but this one is nigh incomprehensible. “You kidnapped me as bait to catch Geralt? Why?” </p><p>“To kill him, of course,” the man says proudly, and Jaskier really doesn’t know what he expected. The man is haggard and wild eyed, and Jaskier notices with a small note of worry that he has two swords sitting next to him, and judging by the exposed sections, they’re silver and steel. The man draws the steel, and starts swinging it around with a little giggle. “I’m going to join the ranks of the great hunters, like Leo Bonhardt. I’ve already killed the one! Got the medallion to prove it!” </p><p>He offers up a Griffin head medallion from under his shirt, and Jaskier’s blood runs white hot for a moment before turning to ice. Geralt’s told him some about the other Witcher schools, and he knows about the Griffins, a bit. Chivalrous. Brave. Kind, when they could be. They were knights in heart. </p><p>And this mewling sack of shit has cut one down. </p><p>There are so few Witchers left, the loss of even one is a devastating blow. </p><p>“So I see,” Jaskier says mildly. “Very impressive.” </p><p>“Fuck yeah it is!” The man cackles. “Going to get a Wolf next, when he finds you gone.” </p><p>Jaskier is many things. Jaskier is human. Jaskier is educated. Jaskier is clever, and intelligent, but not necessarily smart. Jaskier is a nobleman’s son with a nobleman’s training, and half Keracki to boot. Jaskier is fast. Jaskier is good with his hands. Jaskier is a coward, right up until he’s riled.</p><p>Jaskier is <em>very</em> good with ropes.</p><p>The ropes fall off his wrists quickly and quietly, and he listens to the man rave about his plans to cut off Geralt’s lovely hair and take it as a trophy, which, ew. He sits through all of this increasing yelled, feverish blood hunger and then says, politely, “Yes, well, that’s all very lovely, but can I get some water?”</p><p>The man cuts off mid sentence, and scowls. “Water?” </p><p>“Yes,” Jaskier says, endeavoring to look like the most helpless creature on the planet. “I’m terribly thirsty. I did a show tonight, you know.” </p><p>“Oh, yeah,” the man says, and turns to grab his waterskin. </p><p>Jaskier is up on his feet in seconds, near silent, and he grabs the hilt of the silver blade and draws it free. It fits his hand perfectly, the balance wonderful, and he feels a flash of mourning for the man who once must have cared deeply for such a beautiful pair of swords.</p><p>“Forgive me,” he says mildly as the man turns and he runs him through. </p><p>The man chokes out a, “Fuck you-” and Jaskier twists the blade a bit. The razor’s edge cuts deep and easily. The man screams, and it is unbelievably satisfying as he falls to the ground, pinned by the sword.</p><p>“Not you,” he snaps, and bends to grab the Griffin’s head medallion, pulling it free of the bastard’s neck with the chain still intact. “Whoever he was, I hope he forgives me for killing a human with his silver. But I’ll stand by it.”</p><p>He plants his foot on the body and drags the sword free, skipping back to keep the blood off of his boots. He plucks his knife from the ground and swoops in to cut both thigh arteries, hard and fast, and the man convulses. </p><p>“After all,” he says, as the man takes his last shuddering breath and dies, “silver is meant for monsters.” </p><p>When Geralt returns to the inn the next morning, Jaskier is waiting in their room, looking out the little window at the mountains beyond. The swords have been cleaned, polished, and sharpened, their leather scabbards repaired to the best of his ability. The Griffin medallion is looped around the hilt of the silver. Geralt stops, looking at the swords, and looks to Jaskier. </p><p>“You had an eventful day, then,” he says quietly, and Jaskier closes his eyes, nodding. </p><p>“And I’ll live to have more, which is the point,” he sighs. “I was sloppy. Grabbed from town. He took me to the woods, started raving about how he was going to kill you and join the ranks of other famous Witcher killers, like someone called Leo Bonhardt. He showed me the swords and the medallion and I just…”</p><p>Geralt’s hand finds his shoulder, and Jaskier blindly reaches back to hold it. </p><p>“Geralt,” he says, opening his eyes and looking up at him. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t get a name. I don’t know where to take them, or where he was killed. There’s so few of you, and he was a <em>Griffin</em>...” </p><p>Geralt squeezes his shoulder, quietly reassuring. “I’ll take the swords and medallion with me to Kaer Morhen this winter,” he says, sounding very gentle. “Some Griffins come to stay with us. One of them might recognize them.” </p><p>Jaskier nods, looking back at the swords. “I killed him with the silver,” he says quietly. “I hope the Griffin wouldn’t mind.” </p><p>Geralt’s voice is quiet but hard as he says, “Even Griffins know some men are monsters.” </p><p>They don’t have to wait for winter, it turns out. Jaskier meets a younger Griffin by the name of Coen when he and Geralt accidentally cross paths with him, and Coen takes the swords and medallion with a sad smile, and at least gives them a name. Rilandrus of Lettenhove, they learn, and Jaskier’s blood runs cold again. He waits until Geralt’s gone to get their food before turning to Coen. </p><p>“I’m the son of the Viscount de Lettenhove,” he says quietly. “If you’d like, I can take the medallion there, and bury it.” </p><p>“He never got a chance to see the place,” Coen says with a little smile. “We just picked them out of an atlas. I think he’d like that.” </p><p>When they part ways, Jaskier drapes Rilandrus’ medallion around his neck, and buttons his shirt up high. He has a duty to the people of Lettenhove, he knows, and Geralt says nothing when they part a little earlier in the year than normal and Jaskier starts making his way to his ancestral home. They’re relatively close, at least, and he slips through the trees of his youth and finds a nice clearing with a view of the castle, the farmlands, and a babbling brook. He buries the medallion deep, sighing when he covers it up. </p><p>“Sorry about your silver, Rilandrus,” he says quietly, sitting down next to the medallion and looking out at what was once his home. No. Not his home, where he lived. It was never a home. “I hope golden sunshine will make up for it.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Rilandrus of Lettenhove's further adventures, such as they are, can be found in my fic Silver and Copper, the other nod to silver in this story. Mind the tags though.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Contract (Coën&Lambert/Aiden, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Coën puts up with a lot in the name of making sure his love struck best friend has time to work out his feelings.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Coën and Lambert are queerplatonic, much to Coën's exasperated dismay, and Aiden's delight. Coën puts up with so much shit for the people he loves. Give the man a sainthood.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Coën hears about Aiden for a long time before he ever meets him, because Lambert comes stomping up to him out of the blue in Cidaris, sits down across from him at his table at a very nice restaurant while the wait staff dither in alarm, steals a piece of his exquisitely cooked chicken and says, with great indignity, “You will not <em>believe</em> the bullshit I just had to deal with in Ellander.” </p>
<p>Considering that Ellander is, frankly, half the goddamn Continent away, Coën knows from that moment that whatever it is, Lambert’s doomed. </p>
<p>The “whatever” is a Cat. The Cat is named Aiden. Aiden the Cat had been hired to kill a cursed Ogre that Lambert had been hired to break the curse on, and then the ogre had killed Lambert’s employer, and then things went thoroughly sideways and it led to the two of them teaming up and splitting the reward. This, of course, was an absolute outrage that Lambert immediately needed to tell his best friend about, and had promptly turned and hiked himself to Cidaris to do so. Coën despaired, but was also a little touched.</p>
<p>“And then,” Lambert says with a half full mouth, positively enraged, “he <em>flirted</em> with me! Or at me, I suppose. I didn’t really respond. And worse, <em>apologized</em> to me! And not about the flirting!” </p>
<p>“Wow,” Coën says dryly. “Tragic.” </p>
<p>“Fuck Cats,” Lambert says, swallowing and Coën just waves a hand at the nearest waitress to bring them more chicken and a bottle of their shittiest wine, because Lambert in this kind of mood can’t be trusted to appreciate decent wines properly. He’s more of a vodka guy in the first place.</p>
<p>Lambert still complained about the wine. Coën wondered why they were friends. And then Lambert decked a guy for calling him a frankly uncalled for slur on their way to the inn, and he stopped wondering. </p>
<p>A few months later in Vizima, Lambert pulls him out of a barfight, knocks out his opponent, and says, “Coën, you won’t believe this shit, I ran into that gods-be-damned Cat again and he had the fucking audacity to flirt with me. Again!” </p>
<p>“Hello, Lambert, it’s so nice to see you,” Coën says, tipping his head back to try and get his nose to stop bleeding. With a crunch he returns it to its proper alignment. “I’ve had a great few weeks, how about you? How’s the horse? Your brothers? I’ve been great, thank you so much for asking.” </p>
<p>“Oh fuck off,” Lambert says, and hands him a monogrammed handkerchief, because that’s the kind of disaster Lambert is when he’s feeling nice. “He <em>flirted</em> with me, Coën! It’s a goddamn outrage!” </p>
<p>“Is it, though?” Coën says, exhausted. </p>
<p>“Yes!” </p>
<p>Coën rolls his eyes and actually looks at Lambert. “Where’d you ride in from, anyway?” </p>
<p>“Ard Carraigh.” </p>
<p>Coën closes his eyes and prays to several gods he doesn’t believe in for patience.</p>
<p>This is how it goes, for nearly three years. The stories get longer and longer, and Coën’s eyes nearly roll out of his head as stories of Aiden get more and more detailed and Lambert’s eyes get softer and softer, until one night in a forest in the middle of nowhere Lambert says, his voice very small, “I think I love him.” </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Coën says, half asleep. “I know.” </p>
<p>“You know?” </p>
<p>“Course I know,” Coën groans. “Lambert, you’re an awful prickly bastard and I love you for it, but you aren’t soft with me unless I really feel like shit. With him, you roll right over and show all that softness you pretend you don’t have, and you just get all sorts of excited every time you talk about him. I know.” </p>
<p>“Oh.” </p>
<p>“Yeah, oh.” Coën rolls over and drags him in closer, their bedrolls close enough to do so. “Shut up and cuddle with me, I’m tired.” </p>
<p>Lambert does, burrowing against him with his face red, and Coën smiles smugly before drifting off to sleep. </p>
<p>It finally comes to a head about the start of the 4th year. Coën’s riding through Novigrad and sees a familiar figure in the distance, and an even more familiar voice raised in strident argument. Lambert’s talking to a handsome man, who’s leaning against the side of a wall and grinning up at him with a positively wicked and indulgent smile, gold-green Cat eyes glittering with mirth. He’s well dressed and clean, his hair well kept and his posture easy, and his swords are well cared for. He looks the part of a prosperous, well to do traveler, which is rare on a Witcher. Coën sighs, hitches his horse, and walks over to the pair. </p>
<p>“-can’t be trusted with bombs, you absolute brat- oh hi Coën,” Lambert says, immediately derailed as Coën looms up beside him. “This is Aiden. Aiden, Coën.” </p>
<p>“Yeah, I figured.” Coën looks at Aiden. Aiden looks back, grinning, and Coën understands in an instant what’s going on as his eyes stray back to Lambert. Coën sighs, rubbing his forehead. “You’re sure about this one, Aiden?” </p>
<p>“Oh, definitely,” Aiden says without a moment’s hesitation. “He makes me smile. Honestly, I was just waiting to meet you before I said anything, wanted to make sure I wouldn’t frighten him off and I had your approval.” </p>
<p>Lambert splutters, and Coën grabs his arm. “Would you just excuse us for one moment,” he says serenely, and Aiden’s grin widens as Coën frog marches his friend out of Witcher hearing distance. </p>
<p>“What the fuck,” Lambert demands, and Coën grabs his face, looking him dead in the eyes. </p>
<p>“Lambert,” he says solemnly, “somehow, and believe me, I have no idea how, you’ve gone and got a man who not only loves you but likes you. That idiot is head over heels for you, has a good set of armor, and seems like he’s got a good sense of humor. If you don’t marry him <em>I will</em>.” </p>
<p>Lambert’s jaw drops, and he splutters for a second before saying, “I can’t get married, we’re Witchers, it’s not allowed-” </p>
<p>Coën lets go just to thump him on the top of the head before grabbing his face again. “Since when have you given a shit about what we can and can’t do? The Schools are gone, we’re dying out, we could be dead any day, and you want to worry about tradition? YOU? Come on, Lambert. Marriage is just a contract anyway, and Witchers are great with contracts.” </p>
<p>Lambert stares at him, wide eyed, and then abruptly yanks himself free to go running back to Aiden, who looks up, only to yelp in surprise as Lambert grabs his face to kiss him. Coën takes his time walking back to the two, and by the time he gets there, they’re both a bit disheveled and wild eyed. </p>
<p>“So,” Coën says mildly. “I guess now’s a good time to tell you that thanks to some very fun exploited loopholes, I’m a justice of the peace in Novigrad.” </p>
<p>Aiden looks at him, wide eyed, and back at Lambert. “Marry me,” he demands, and Lambert grins. </p>
<p>“Sure.” </p>
<p>Coën rolls his eyes to the sky. “The romance may kill me,” he deadpans, but he’s smiling. </p>
<p>They have the handfasting on the banks of the river at sunset on the way out of town. It’s simple and quiet, the tie to bind their hands an old leather keeper strap from Coën’s saddle, and Lambert only cries a little. They proceed to get roaring drunk afterwards, and Coën watches the two sing horribly off key, bundled together on the opposite side of the fire, and smiles to himself. </p>
<p>This is set to be the start of something wonderful. </p>
<p>And ridiculous. </p>
<p>Probably mostly ridiculous. </p>
<p>He drains his vodka, and joins them in the chorus.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Scream (Jaskier/Yennefer, background Y/G/J, M)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Yennefer offers a gift. Jaskier makes a choice. Everyone suffers.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Allusions to sex, accidental manipulation due to emotional trauma, breakups. </p><p>Suggested listening: Her Sweet Kiss and Farewell Wanderlust.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Yennefer finds them in Redania, Jaskier halfway through a set and Geralt halfway out the door. She’s dressed down, for her, in black with simple silver trim and a rather subdued amount of cleavage. Jaskier doesn’t stop mid song, though he desperately wants to jump out of his seat to go dance around her and beg for attention. Geralt hovers in front of her, the pair of them hopelessly appealing in the light from the doorway. It’s a cool night, so Geralt’s got his cloak on, and the shimmer of black and silver as the two lean their heads together, conspiratorial, has him hungry and thoughtful all at once. </p><p>Yennefer steals a punishing kiss and shoves Geralt out the door. She takes a seat at the bar, casually leaning back against it and fixing violet eyes on him. Jaskier smiles in spite of himself, but he’s good and finishes his entire set before collecting his coin and going to join her. </p><p>“And what,” he says fondly, taking her offered hand and bending to kiss her knuckles, “is such a lovely thing as my lady doing in a place like this?” </p><p>“Oh, the usual,” she sighs, but she’s smiling, and she reaches up to tuck a curl of his hair back behind his ears. He’s wearing it long right now, mostly for her. She likes the look of it, and it does make him look older, which he’s not opposed to. “Buy me a drink?” </p><p>“Twist my arm a little harder.” </p><p>Her eyes darken, smile smoldering. “Maybe later.” </p><p>Jaskier smiles, flagging down the barman. “I’ll hold you to that, my dear.” </p><p>Yennefer only has the one drink before she invites herself up to the room he’s sharing with Geralt, and he doesn’t fight her on it. He goes happily, and when she shuts the door and shoves him against it he’s positively thrilled. </p><p>The following events can’t be discussed in polite company, because Yennefer’s tastes run mostly to delightfully exotic renditions of familiar moves, and by the time it’s closing in on midnight Jaskier is having a thoroughly excellent night. He’s mildly tousled and sweaty, but that was frankly not unexpected even after a regular night of playing, so he doesn’t mind overmuch. This inn has a genuine bathhouse anyway, he’s going to avail himself of it whenever he gets the chance. (Geralt, the hedonist, had made a beeline straight for it before even going up to their rooms to drop off their luggage.) </p><p>He watches as Yennefer climbs back into her gown, a thoroughly lovely thing, and smiles as he watches her flick her fingers and do up the buttons. “This is a new dress.” </p><p>“Cintran style,” she says, climbing back onto the bed and sitting next to him. “Calanthe likes long bell shapes, they’re very pretty. Everywhere else is going more to those massive things with all the hoops, which is fine, but I like the slim lines.” She absently strokes over his chest hair. Jaskier lets her, still bare and vulnerable, and Yennefer’s eyes flick up to meet his. </p><p>“I have something for you,” she says at last.</p><p>Jaskier is immediately interested. “You never get me gifts,” he says, delighted. “What is it?” </p><p>Yennefer does something complicated and into her hands pops a small stoppered bottle full of shimmering gold liquid that makes the little magpie portion of his brain light up with sudden greed. Jaskier blinks, glancing back up at her. She looks almost excited about it, and he carefully takes it from her, watching the liquid swish back and forth. </p><p>“What is it?” he asks, fascinated. The gold really is beautiful. </p><p>“Complicated, mostly,” Yennefer says, smiling, “but it stops aging.” </p><p>Jaskier freezes. “What?” </p><p>“Drink it, and you stop aging,” Yennefer says again, nodding at the bottle. “I had to jump through so many hoops to get this for you, but I thought it would be a nice surprise. I thought maybe now would be a good time. You still look quite young, and I know how vain you are.” She reaches out and runs her fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at the ends. “Unless you want to wait longer and see if you get more dashing with age. Most men don’t, though.” </p><p>Jaskier says nothing, staring at the bottle. </p><p>He’s thought about it, of course. Yennefer and Geralt, unaging (or at least slowly aging) beauties and their life together, impetuous and beautiful. Geralt is close to or past the century mark, Yennefer near 70, and Geralt looks like he’s barely 40 discounting the silver, while Yennefer could be anywhere from 18 to her 30’s. They will always be such creatures as he saw in the doorway, black and silver and lit in the shadows of the world. And he is many things, but he isn’t that. He’s light, color, the wheel and whim of the word. He is <em>change</em>. </p><p>“Jaskier?” </p><p>Jaskier climbs out of bed, taking the bottle with him. The golden liquid moves oddly within the textured glass, almost like light suspended in oil, somehow. </p><p>It’s a choice. He just never thought he would have to make it now.  </p><p>“I can’t,” he says, his voice hoarse. </p><p>Yennefer stares at him, then smiles. “Of course you can, it’s a gift. It’s not like you have to pay me back.” </p><p>“No,” he says, meeting her eyes. “Yennefer. I can’t.” </p><p>Her smile falters, then falls entirely. “Explain,” she says, and her voice has grown cold. “Why. Are we a passing fancy to you, then?”</p><p>“What? No, it’s not that at all. Yennefer,” he says, desperate for her to understand, “I’ve <em>seen</em> how you and Geralt look at the world. I’ve spent nearly 20 years of my life, half of my life, with him! And a decade of that was with you around as well, I don’t want immortality. I’ve seen how it weighs on you, how much you both struggle with time. I don’t want to be immortal. I want a human life. I want to live, and grow old, and pass peacefully.” </p><p>“You could still die-” </p><p>“I don’t want my death to be a casual suicide! I want my end to be unplanned, or should I grow ill, at the loving hands of those who wish me to no longer be in pain!” He’s shaking now, and he carefully sets the bottle on the table lest his hands betray him. “I love you, I love Geralt, and I will happily spend the rest of my life loving you both, but I will not spend eternities unchanging and watching the world fall apart. One day my hands will cease to play the lute, my eyes will fail, my voice grow hoarse and broken. And that is the way of the cycle of life, as it should be. My words can be a legend, but I don’t want to be.” </p><p>Yennefer is staring at him, eyes furious and heartbroken, and he kneels down at the side of the bed, desperate for her to understand. </p><p>“Yennefer,” he says, his voice shaking. “In 20 years I have seen so much. I take breaks from Geralt’s side because the world you and he inhabit is one of pain, and anguish, and suffering. I bear it as best I can, but I cannot handle the thought of more than perhaps 80 years, if I am lucky, upon this world. I record the stories of the Continent, and I make them pretty, but I have seen so much violence and hatred. I couldn’t bear it to live as long as you have. I’d go insane. I’m weak, my love. I am wanting for courage and fortitude both.”</p><p>Yennefer pushes him away, mouth wobbling as she gets to her feet. “You are so selfish,” she spits, and he can hear the hurt in her voice. His heart plummets. “You want us to be lonely. You’ll leave us alone!” </p><p>“Yennefer,” he begs, but she’s already storming towards the door. “Yennefer, please try to understand-” </p><p>She snaps her fingers and summons the bottle to her hand, clearly furious. “I try to give you a gift that humans have been hunting for through centuries, and you tell me you’d rather die than be with me-” </p><p>Jaskier’s jaw drops, and this time real anger wells up. “Do <em>not</em> twist my words,” he snaps, an ache opening up in his chest. “I have every right to a mortal life, it is <em>my</em> choice. You don’t get to manipulate me into it, you should know better than anyone about choices that aren’t real choices at all!” </p><p>It’s the wrong thing to say. The room plummets to ice cold, and Jaskier flinches back, half expecting a hit. But Yennefer just glares at him, violet fury, and says flatly, “You get to tell Geralt that you’re leaving him one day, and you had the chance to be with him forever.” </p><p>And she slams the door behind her, leaving him naked and alone. </p><p>He doesn’t scream. </p><p>He wants to scream. But he doesn’t. </p><p>Jaskier gets his things and goes down to the bathhouse. And once he’s climbed into the quiet tub he puts his face under the water and screams then. He does so over, and over, and over, until his throat is aching and the tears have stopped so obviously dripping down his face. He composes himself as best as he can, washes his hair and body. He dries off. He goes back upstairs, and curls up in the bed, and sobs a little when he smells lilac and gooseberries on the sheets, and every brush of his hair against his jaw reminds him of her hands in it.</p><p>He’s a small, fragile ball when Geralt gets back. Geralt’s been to the bath as well, cleaned up before he came up to put his gear away, and he stops in the doorway when he sees Jaskier huddled under the sheets.</p><p>“Jaskier? Are you well?” </p><p>Jaskier turns just enough to look at him, and Geralt clearly sees he’s been crying. He shuts the door and tosses his armor into the corner, climbing into bed. Jaskier feels Geralt stiffen as he smells Yennefer’s scent, and closes his eyes. </p><p>Geralt gently stroking his arm is almost too much to bear, but Jaskier turns around and shoves his face into Geralt’s shirt, choking on a breathless sob. </p><p>“What happened?” Geralt asks, once he’s all cried out. “Did Yennefer do something? Did you do something?” </p><p>Jaskier inhales slowly, and gives a shaky little laugh. “I fucked up by doing the right thing. She’s angry because I made a choice, and it wasn’t the one she wanted. But it’s the right choice.” </p><p>“Jaskier…”</p><p>Jaskier shakes his head, letting his head fall to the pillow. “It’s between us, Geralt. I think… I think she’s done with me. Maybe for good. She was very upset. But there’s that saying, of course. Can’t set yourself on fire to keep someone else warm. I won’t. I refuse to be anything but selfish about this. It’s <em>my</em> choice.” </p><p>Geralt clearly has no idea what he’s talking about, but he gently strokes Jaskier’s hair, and lets Jaskier be sad. And in the morning they turn back to a familiar road, and Jaskier is quietly, pathetically grateful when Geralt takes him to Oxenfurt very early this year. His little stone house with its sad little garden is quietly waiting for him, and he’ll take some time to write truly terrible poetry and music about her. Geralt kisses him before he goes, and Jaskier makes it three days before he goes to the barbers. </p><p>They cut it short again, to the style he was wearing last when he was the Countess de Stael’s, when he first met Yennefer, and when he looks in the mirror he sees it, then. Age. </p><p>“My choice,” he mutters, but he finds a seller of plants and buys a pair of lilac starts for his front garden, and a gooseberry to plant in the back. </p><p>In the Spring, he’ll make Geralt take him somewhere far from here. Caingorn, perhaps. </p><p>They say there are dragons in Caingorn.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Suggested rereading: Chapter 1</p><p>This is the part where I remind you that they do get back together.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Mother (Violence, M)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The stories of Vesemir, Eskel, Coën, and Lambert's mothers.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Domestic abuse resulting in death, domestic abuse of a child (Lambert, Eskel, and Coën), death in childbirth, implied rape, implied forced marriage, attempted murder of a child, child labor (Vesemir). These ones hurt.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Boudicca fau Veserine</p>
</div>They used to say it was an honor for the Witchers to come and take a child. People know better now. But Boudicca is poor now and her husband is gone, and she and her child will starve if something isn’t done. At least this way her poor mite may yet live. Once they were prosperous, her and her husband mercenary guards as their ancestors before them, but now they live in barely more than a hovel on the edge of lands belonging to the kingdom of Nilfgaard. There is no support for people like them. Most nobles bleed them dry, and work them to death in the fields. Already her son has been dragged to the fields with her, and worked til he fainted. This cannot be his life. He must get out, and then she will flee. <p>Boudicca has known Witchers. They’re solid enough, for all the insanity, and while not all survive at least a portion do. Perhaps her son will be among the lucky few. The Witcher waits in the doorway, patient and quiet as she fusses with a bundle of clothing and things for him to take. </p><p>Vesemir trails after her, scared and uncertain, and when she has the pack on him she takes a deep breath and looks at him properly.</p><p>“Amma, I don’t want to go,” he begs, and her eyes fill with tears as she kisses his forehead. </p><p>“You must, lovely. Vesemir,” she says, stroking his cheeks, and he looks up at her with wide eyes. He takes so much after his father, but he has her eyes. “You will become something better than this, and bring honor where you go. All our line were meant for the blade, it is in our blood. You will be a defender of all humanity. Do you understand me? It is our duty, always, to carry the sword and raise it against injustice.”</p><p>His mouth wobbles but he sets his small shoulders and nods. </p><p>“Good lad,” she whispers, and kisses his forehead again. “I will miss you terribly, and listen for songs of your tales on the wind.” </p><p>He hugs her tight, and then he leaves with the Witcher Giderung of Kaedwen. </p><p>She weeps for a week before she goes to her chest and pulls out her old armor. She takes down her sword and Visha’s from over the mantle, straps one to her back and one to her hip, and heads out the door, never to toil in a field again.</p><p>She finds a company who take her without question, and they accompany nobles and caravans through the lawless wilds of Nilfgaard until one day they come to a small, well kept noble household and a man of her age steps out to be accompanied to the capitol. He is beautiful, with dark curls and soft eyes, a handsome arched nose and warm brown skin, and she cannot quite help staring. He spars with them along the way, and they grow to know each other. He loathes the way the kingdom is run. He is good to his people, and they prosper for it, to the jealousy of his peers. He wants to fix it, wants to make the whole land prosper, has dreams that he whispers to her by the fire. </p><p>When they reach the capitol he asks him to join her, and pair their blades together to save the people from those who would feed off them like parasites. She agrees.</p><p>They do not succeed in their own attempts to gather power, but the wheels they set in motion are enough. They have three sons together, and 8 grandchildren, one of them who becomes an Imperator and takes his grandparents' work firmly in hand, driving Nilfgaard to be better than ever. Boudicca’s children are masters with a blade- their line is born to it. It is in their blood. All of them give offerings to the Sun for the child that Boudicca gave up, to honor his life and what he gave them.</p><p>Torres var Emreis, son of Ruen var Emreis, son of Iramai var Emreis and Boudicca fau Veserine takes hold of the throne with his grandmother’s eagle eyes and his grandfather’s looks in 1135, and never looks back.</p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>Satya of the Hills</b>
  </p>
</div>Satya is 20, and has a six year old son in her arms, a four year old daughter playing horsies, a three year old pair of twins, and a babe in her belly. <p>“Will you?” she asks when the Witcher comes for payment to her family farm. “Would you, I mean. I know he’s quite young, but to be frank, so am I, and I want him out of here. Anything is better than here.” </p><p>The Witcher looks at her oldest, who has intense eyes for a six year old boy. Eskel, fearless as ever, meets them. The Witcher looks back at her, and she knows what he sees. A shattered little thing made of glass and spite, barely held together with an apron dress and wool dress under it, her hair up in a married woman’s braids and long enough that she’s had to wear them for a time. She can see he can see her face on each of the children, who are lovely as the moon for all their father’s awfulness. </p><p>“Surely your headman-” he starts quietly. </p><p>“My father.” </p><p>The Witcher closes his eyes, and she’s gratified to see that he looks pained. Eskel, obediently quiet thanks to all the bullshit her husband has beat into him, holds onto her skirts and stares at the Witcher. </p><p>Finally, Rennes of the Wolf School says, “If you’re sure, I will take him.” </p><p>Satya has been sure since she saw him walk into the village. She gathers Eskel’s things while the Witcher waits in the doorway, and Eskel goes somberly. She bends to kiss his forehead, and he takes it, still saying nothing. He doesn’t speak much. Her eyes don’t burn with tears, because tears have been burned out of her by now, so she just gently strokes his hair. </p><p>“You have a chance to be something new,” she tells him firmly. “Your name is stripped from you. You are only Eskel, son of none, of nowhere. You will be a Witcher, and then you will choose to be from somewhere instead. Your mother was Satya, your father was no one worth naming. You will be better than here. You will do wonderful things. I place this upon you, with oath and memory, you will be better than your blood. Swear to me, Eskel.” </p><p>“I swear,” he says, small but firm. He doesn’t cry as he kisses her cheek. She hopes he learns how to again. </p><p>And then he’s gone. </p><p>He’s. gone. </p><p>Satya of the Hills, wife of Tornau, daughter of the Headman and unrealized Source, dies in childbirth 4 months later. Her final thought is of her oldest, and she goes smiling, remembering the fury of her husband when he found his heir had got away.</p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>Mistress Antoinette Palmer</b>
  </p>
</div>The dreadful boy catches the pox a little after her husband, and Antoinette is very pleased when she comes in to find him coughing and suffering. Her own children are well away from the house, and with the boy’s father gone and his money now safely in her hands, there’s no reason to keep the child. She had considered it, of course, because one can always use servants, but now that the vile little pustule has the pox, there’s no reason to keep him. Only a little orphan, without even his once fine features anymore. His mother was a fine woman, according to the painting of her, but she had died so terribly young. Seems it runs in the family. <p>“Take him to the woods,” she says to her manservant. “Deep, mind you, we don’t need anyone else catching this foul disease. And leave him there. He should burn out by the end of tomorrow, I’ll stop his food now.” </p><p>“Yes, my lady,” he says, because Coram is a good man who understands his place in the world. </p><p>What Antoinette doesn’t know, as she counts her money and considers having a new dress made, is that Coram is a man wracked with guilt as he takes the small, sad bundle of 8 year old boy from the house and climbs onto his horse. She doesn’t see him ride into the darkness, deeper and deeper into the woods as the boy wheezes and moans- the sores are in his throat, and severe on his face. Antoinette doesn’t see him climb off of his horse and start to weep, holding the boy and whispering to Melitele to please, please spare him from this, to give him a way out. </p><p>Antoinette doesn’t see him wander through the beautiful forest on a cold autumn evening. She doesn’t see the fire he spots, and the shape that looms out of the darkness, the armor and somber, beautiful face, the silver hair and soft eyes for all they’re like a cat’s. </p><p>She doesn’t hear Coram whisper, “Please, Master Witcher, she bade me leave him to die, <em>please</em>,” or see the Witcher called Rilandrus of Lettenhove gently take the child, stroking soft curls back away from the face. The Griffin on his chest might glitter as he asks the boy’s name, and rolls the word <em>Coën</em> over in his mouth a time or two.</p><p>Coram returns home without the boy, and Antoinette is a very happy woman for three days. </p><p>On the fourth day, she wakes to the pox. </p><p>On the eighth day, Coram watches his mistress be burned, and pisses on her ashes.</p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>Celesta Bromstochtor</b>
  </p>
</div>Celeste weeps when Rogir grabs her son to shove him to the Witcher who looms in the doorway, because what else can she do? But after Rogir whacks the back of her head hard enough for her to stumble and her fierce little man lunges for him, again, she just catches her boy and holds him tight. Rogir stomps off to the other room to find his wine, and she holds Lambert tight. He’s so painfully thin, and both of his eyes are blacked besides the other bruises and the probably still broken ribs. Rogir eats like a king, and she and Lambert forage for berries in the hopes they’ll survive the week, most times. <p>The Witcher doesn’t seem thrilled by this, meeting her eyes, but she knows he can see the state that they’re both in. </p><p>“If he’s suited to life at the temple, I will take him there instead,” the Witcher promises her, very quiet, so Rogir can’t overhear. “Or find him a placement for an apprenticeship and training, once we see how he fairs.” </p><p>“Thank you,” she says, hands trembling. Lambert is a seething bundle in her arms, furious and scared, and she kisses the side of his head as she heaves in a shaking breath. “Lambert is his name. He’s 9, as I recall, born in the spring. I was. I was unwell, when I had him, I marked him as around the middle of the third month. He can read some, and he is very good with sums and building things, excellent with the phases of the moon and hunting, he’s a very good tracker even now, good memorization, his memory is amazing-” </p><p>“Amma, no,” Lambert protests, his eyes going wide. “You can’t send me away.” </p><p>Celeste’s eyes fill with tears. “Oh, love,” she whispers. “You can’t stay. You’re a child surprise now, and you’re destined for a better life than what I can give you here.” </p><p>He stares at her in horror, and looks back at the Witcher, who doesn’t seem any happier about it than he is. </p><p>“No,” he begs, clinging to her, “no, no, he’ll- if I’m not here- he- <em>Amma</em>-” </p><p>“I know, baby,” Celeste says, because she does. “I know. But this is what we have to do, my darling, this is how your story starts. Mine ends, yours begins. It’s going to be alright.” Her voice cracks and breaks and she drags him in to hold him tight for a moment before she gets to her feet and hurries to gather his meager things, Lambert shedding furious, terrified tears in her wake. </p><p>She’s done the best she could with what she’s had, and made him some clothes that fit more or less alright. There are those, a few small toys like a little carved horse and a small doll, and his winter cloak that she packs in a bag. It’s barely anything, but it’s everything. She gets him a bit of bread for the road and gets him to put his shoes on. The betrayal and shock in that small face is the worst thing she’s ever seen, and all of it goes with Rogir starting to sing off key, a sign that foretells pain and suffering. The Witcher is uncomfortable, but he stays, keeping an eye on Rogir as she works. </p><p>Celeste chivvies her precious child out into their hardscrabble garden and falls to her knees. He hugs her tight, shaking with fury and fear both, and Celeste buries her face in his neck. She’ll have little to remember him by. A small picture she did once and keeps hidden, that’s all. Once, people said she had a knack for art. But Celeste had learned the hard way that what she really had was a knack for surviving. </p><p>“Your name, Master Witcher,” she asks at last. </p><p>“Vesemir,” he says, “of Dol Angra.” </p><p>“Vesemir of Dol Angra,” Celeste says, through her tears. “You take him far from here, and you do what you can for him, because he is your child now as well as mine. My son, your child, you must be better to him than his father, and I know that’s not a high bar, yet-” </p><p>“Don’t make me go,” Lambert begs, his voice high and thin, but he knows it’s pointless. She can feel the truth taking hold. </p><p>Celeste pulls back to look at him, gently stroking his face. She fixes it in her mind, every line and inch. “Darling,” she says, her voice hitching and cracking. “He would never let you see the day you could escape. This is that day. You <em>must</em> go with Vesemir, far from here.” </p><p>She hugs him one last time and presses a kiss to his forehead, and Vesemir leaves with the only bright spot in her life. </p><p>“I’ll come back,” Lambert yells as he goes, tears streaming down his face, and Celeste nearly collapses. “I swear I’ll come back!” </p><p>Celeste watches them go, and weeps for weeks whenever she knows Rogir won’t catch her. She eats what she can, but she grows weaker and weaker. It’s almost a relief, when he kills her. It’s a fast death, one hit too hard and she falls and hits her head on the table. She lands on the floor, and as her eyes close she can almost remember the warmth of the sun with her boy as she picks blackberries.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Aretuza (Yennefer/Geralt, implied Y/G/J, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Yennefer doesn't eat eels.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When she’s feeling sad, Yennefer goes to visit her friends. Not often, of course, because Tissaia is getting wise to her tricks, if she was ever in the dark in the first place. But, well, she doesn’t actively stop Yennefer. She probably thinks it’s a good way to keep her out of trouble and out of the way and really, she’s probably not wrong. Which is aggravating. </p><p>There’s a small dip off to the side of the eel pool, and Yennefer likes to sit in the dip so her friends can swim up to her. She can tell them apart now. There’s subtle patterning differences in each one of them. Doralis, Anica, Tiffania, they’re each different. And they almost always come to her. The others ignore her, but those three always come to greet her when she’s feeling particularly sad. </p><p>Their lightning spun bodies are soft to the touch, and they’ll push their heads out of the water to nudge at her hands if she’s feeling lonely. They have silly faces, eels, always looking a little bit startled and curious. </p><p>She talks to them. She tells them about their studies, what gossip there is, all of that. She tells them some about Istredd, and laughs when she gets to the salacious bits and they thrash like embarrassed and excited children, shoving their faces up against her feet to encourage her to talk. She gossips with them, as much as she can, and she always feels better when she’s done. They’re still her friends. They’re still precious, even if they’re not the same shape they were before. </p><p>They thrash when they see her as she’s been remade, and she tells them about where she’s going. They bump her hands, subdued, but she gives them all the gossip and tells them everything she can before she’s taken away to Aedirn again. </p><p>“Eels, all of them,” one courtier sighs to her one day. It’s a hot summer day and the woman is casually reclined against her, fanning herself. For some reason the current fashion is trending towards incredibly heavy silk gowns, idiotic in the summer. Yennefer, with her personal cooling spell, has been slowly reeling in this pretty creature to share her bed for a night or two. “Slimy, awful little things.” </p><p>“Come now,” Yennefer says, in a sudden flash of genuine anger. “At least eels keep people fed.” </p><p>“You do have a point,” the courtier sighs, and Yennefer excuses herself, no longer interested and in fact very upset. </p><p>She doesn’t eat eels at all, after that. The more she thinks about it the more upset she gets, so she just makes it a hard and fast rule and makes her displeasure very clear every time eel is on the menu. It phases out of use in the palace, and becomes only a food of the common folk. The rivers have them throughout Aedirn, not handsome greens like her friends are, but small freshwater kinds with small flat faces. It still doesn’t make her happy to see them, and she takes to avoiding the fish market. Aedirn’s king is easy to manipulate, and when she gets mad he’s always very motivated to make it better, so eel becomes a firm no in the courts whenever she’s in residence. </p><p>After Aedirn is Lyria, where she doesn’t have to worry about eels as there aren’t any in the country, small and landlocked as it is. This is a relief, but not one she consciously recognizes; after all, it’s been well past two decades since someone dared to put an eel before her. Past that, when she goes on the run and starts living on the edge, she’s free to pick and choose her food as she wills. There are no worries about eels then, because she just simply doesn’t eat eels.</p><p>Yennefer doesn’t really think about it until years later, when she’s out with Geralt one day near a river. He’s fishing for their supper, which she’s amenable too since Jaskier can do genuinely amazing things with a bluegill and some spices, but his rod pulls out an eel from the water. The long black body thrashes, sinuous, and Geralt quickly grabs it. </p><p>“No!” she shouts as he goes to break its neck, and Geralt jolts in surprise. </p><p>“What?” he asks, baffled. </p><p>“No,” she insists, staring at the eel. “Let it go.” </p><p>Geralt stares at her, and then back at the eel. It’s a good size, and thrashing mightily. “It’s… an eel,” he says slowly. “Do you not like-” </p><p>“I won’t ask again,” she snaps, and her hands are shaking. “Let it <em>go</em>.” </p><p>Geralt unhooks the line from its mouth and lets the eel back into the water. He doesn’t cast out again. Instead, he comes up the bank and very carefully takes her hand. Yennefer’s fully aware that she’s shaking, and her hand feels embarrassingly small in his. Geralt doesn’t seem particularly tender, though. His eyes are searching her face, thoughtful and quiet. </p><p>“You don’t eat eels, then,” he says quietly. </p><p>“No,” she says flatly. “I won’t eat them. Never. They’re good creatures, they don’t deserve- I refuse, I won’t see them hurt or eaten, I just <em>can’t</em>.” </p><p>“Alright,” he says simply, and bends his head just a little to brush a kiss over her cheek. “I’ll remember. No eels. Anything else?” </p><p>She stares into the beyond, shocked past words, and shakes her head. He nods, squeezing her hand, and returns to his fishing pole and casts out again. In the distance she can hear Jaskier singing, some bland little ditty. </p><p>It’s a tiny moment, such a small thing, but she falls in love with him for real then, as he narrows his eyes and purses his lips while he focuses on threading a worm onto his fishhook.</p><p>All over some eels, who were never eels in the first place.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Coin (Geralt/Jaskier, M)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Geralt comes to a realization, and Jaskier's wardrobe suffers for it.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“We’re running low on coin,” Jaskier says as Geralt stomps back into the clearing with a trio of pheasants. He’s been examining their collected purse, and it doesn’t look like an overly large amount. “Looks like the woods for us, for a while.” </p><p>“Blessed silence,” Geralt drawls, and tosses the pheasants to Jaskier before immediately going to face plant into his bedroll. </p><p>It’s been a long month. Their travels through Mahakam have been relatively lucrative, but Jaskier has wanted to go sightseeing and pick up little things since they aren’t likely to come through the country again for some time, so their coin has started to dwindle faster and faster. It’ll work out though. People are liking Jaskier’s new songs, and while usually a Bear tries to patrol the mountainous regions of Mahakam, only a bonded pair of Cats have come through in the last two years. Geralt has plenty of work, when he wants it. But the Mahakam wilderness is flush with life, and Geralt doesn’t mind being out of doors in this pleasant summer. Soon they’ll have to start winding their way back to their usual haunts so that they can both get home in time for the winter, but for now, things are working out. </p><p>And the best part about Mahakam is that not many people have put the Toss a Coin song with Geralt, which means all is well in his personal books. Jaskier has been absolutely thrilled to not have it requested, though he has played it for a few crowds who were very interested indeed. </p><p>Fuck, but he’s tired. Maybe he’ll take a sabbatical next year. Stay with Vesemir again, </p><p>“-alt. Geralt.” </p><p>Geralt blinks, and turns his head. “Hmm?” </p><p>Jaskier smiles, looking very fond. Geralt must have slept, as the pheasants are now plucked, spitted, and roasting on the fire. “I was calling for you for almost a minute. You must be more tired than I expected, to pass out so quickly.” </p><p>Geralt hums. “Been doing a lot.” </p><p>“You have.” Jaskier picks up his lute, plucking a few chords. He’s leaning back against the comfortable base of a tree, cradled in the roots among soft grass. “I was asking how you were feeling about heading a little further south, I heard about hot springs down that way, thought that might be nice.” </p><p>“That would be nice,” Geralt agrees. He levers himself up, stretching out slowly, and pulls his legs in to sit cross legged as Jaskier plays. He looks comfortable like this. Cozy. Settled. As much as any man who lives a life constantly floating from place to place on the road can be, at least. And hasn’t he always been? Aside from after Cintra, of course, but that was an entirely different problem. Jaskier simply fits wherever he goes, carves out a place and makes himself at home. </p><p>He has with Geralt, after all. He found a space to fit and muscled his way in with smiles and songs, and now here they are in Mahakam. Jaskier is untouched by Destiny, unless Destiny has chosen him for musical success. But Jaskier works too hard for that to be true. He is beautiful and a disaster and a headache, all wrapped up in silks and cotton sateen, and Geralt watches as he opens his mouth and sings, words tripping out over his tongue with clear, clean force. Destiny hasn’t tied them together. Destiny has nothing to do with this. </p><p>And fuck Destiny anyway. </p><p>He stares into the past and feels the pieces fall into place, each moment faster and faster, feels the rush as the realization hits him after so many years. Jaskier arguing, Jaskier singing, Jaskier stumbling into bed, Jaskier at 18 looking up at him with big eyes and telling him he’s easy to love. </p><p>Jaskier is too. It just took Geralt longer to see it for himself. </p><p>Geralt chooses. </p><p>“Jaskier,” he says, and Jaskier looks over to him, breaking off. </p><p>“Yes?” </p><p>“<em>Jaskier</em>,” Geralt says again, and whatever’s on his face makes Jaskier’s eyes go wide. He sets aside the lute and Geralt scrambles around the fire, suddenly much too far away, and the <em>noise</em> Jaskier makes as Geralt’s hands cup his face and their mouths meet will stick with him forever. It’s desperate and filthy and shocked, but Jaskier’s arms wrap around him tight to keep him close. Geralt has a quick moment to be grateful for the tree and the soft grass keeping them both from regretting doing this on the ground before Jaskier moans into his mouth and he is much more preoccupied. </p><p>“Get this <em>off</em>,” he mutters, shoving at Jaskier’s doublet jacket, and Jaskier obliges even as they half pant, half kiss, all of it sloppy and uneven. Geralt’s fumbling at his own few shreds of armor, pulling things off as he goes, and he flings it haphazardly aside as Jaskier surges up to shove his fingers in Geralt’s waves and wrap them tight. </p><p>“If you regret this in the morning,” Jaskier starts, ragged against his mouth, but Geralt just pins him down. </p><p>“Won’t,” he promises, and drags his mouth over the column of Jaskier’s throat. “Couldn’t.” </p><p>Jaskier swears inventively as Geralt rucks up his shirt, and that’s about the point when Geralt smells a change in the smoke and abruptly lifts his head. Jaskier turns, dazed, and says, “Oh, <em>fuck</em>-” </p><p>In the end it doesn’t take that much work to put out the unfortunate casualty of their passions, but Jaskier’s doublet is certainly no longer good for anything but scraps. Jaskier looks at it mournfully, making a face. </p><p>“Vests are in,” he says at last. “If I take off the sleeves and lower the neckline, it might look quite dashing. I’d hate to lose it entirely, and if we’re already short on coin-” </p><p>“I’ll start work on it tomorrow,” Geralt promises, and Jaskier beams at him. It’s such a beautiful smile, so fucking dazzling, and now that Geralt is awake to what it means when that smile is turned to him, his heart tries to bang its way out of his rib cage. “Sorry to ruin the moment.” </p><p>Jaskier laughs, and crawls into his lap to absently drape his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, letting them hang. Geralt’s hands find his waist almost without meaning, and he looks up into that wide, easy smile once more. </p><p>“Darling man of mine,” Jaskier says, hopelessly fond, “we have time enough for a thousand moments more.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Sleep (Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer, T)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Yennefer stays.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s Jaskier who asks her not to go. </p><p>“Please stay,” he says, and his voice is plaintive as she climbs out of bed. “Don’t go.” </p><p>Yennefer looks down at him, this strange and naked creature who has dared to entreat upon her, and frowns. They’ve had a thoroughly pleasant romp this evening, and she doesn’t really want to leave, admittedly. Geralt is still out doing Geralt things, something about wraiths in the next town over, and she does somewhat want to stay and meet with him. There’s a strange tugging in her gut that she doesn’t want to face yet, something that she knows is more than just the love she’s grown to feel for him. </p><p>She should leave. </p><p>Yet. </p><p>Yennefer reaches over and absently brushes her fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “If you’re sure.” </p><p>“I am,” he says, brightening, and she bends down to kiss him again before climbing back into the bed, still bare. The inn they’re at is on her coin- she was passing through anyway, and this place is up to her standards in quality. It’s a far cry from where she once slept in muck and despair, or even the cold little rooms of Aretuza. It’s an equally far cry from her palatial residences, but she’s happy to leave those behind.</p><p>Jaskier curls against her, small and wanting, and she kisses his forehead as he burrows into her arms like a small and fragile thing. And he is, compared to her or Geralt. There’s something deeply satisfying about that thought, and she feels some primal little animal part of her settle and squirm with it. He’s so young. She has nearly 30 years on him, Geralt double that, but he knows what they are and has no qualms, so she doesn’t much care.</p><p>There’s a jingle in the hallway and she flicks up a shield without even thinking, just in case. But it’s only Geralt, unlocking the door with the key and entering the room. He’s visited a bathhouse before returning, shaved off what little beard he’d been growing and got his hair trimmed. The purse from this contract must have been fat. </p><p>“Welcome back,” they chorus, and Jaskier hums with pleasure as Yennefer feels a part of her writhe with agony at having actually welcomed Geralt. But Geralt just smiles, looking very pleased, and sets about stripping off his things. </p><p>“A nice surprise,” he says quietly, eyes flashing to Yennefer’s. In the dark of the night, the faint light from the window makes them reflective. “Expected you to be gone.” </p><p>“Mm, no,” she says, and tugs at Jaskier’s hair. “This one was lonely.” </p><p>Jaskier protests, but Geralt’s smile just widens. He gets his armor off and strips off his clothes, coming to slide into bed behind her. He sighs happily as he presses up against her warmth, and kisses her hair before leaning over to kiss Jaskier’s cheek. His hands follow his mouth, skimming over Yennefer’s sides before reaching around to run over Jaskier, small reassurance. Jaskier hums again, settling back down. </p><p>“Thank you,” he murmurs, and settles down. He’s a warm, solid line against her back, Jaskier’s long legs tangling with hers and Geralt’s.</p><p>She should feel claustrophobic, between the two, but instead she feels cozy. Comforted, even. She’s stayed with lovers before, of course, but somehow this is… different. Yennefer can’t quite put her finger on it, as she pets through Jaskier’s hair and he starts to nod off. She doesn’t usually stay. She goes. She doesn’t keep people in her own bed, most of the time, and when she does she never quite relaxes. The men and women who have been in her bed have been their own kinds of powerful, of course. Geralt is no exception to that. They have been beautiful ornamental nobles too, in the same way Jaskier is. </p><p>(Yennefer has seen the virtue knife he carries. She knows what it symbolizes. Knows exactly what kind of son of Kerack and Redania Jaskier is. She’s been magnanimous enough not to mention it.) </p><p>But perhaps it is this. For all of their power and beauty, their quick wits and sharp tongues, none of them have loved her before. None of them have looked at her, the real her, with fear-that-isn’t and begged her to come swinging at them, and then taken her to lunch after. None of them danced with her. None of them were kind to eels for her, none of them saved her from djinn, none of them teased her with nothing they wanted more than a smile. Geralt loves to make her smile, he loves to harass her into irritation and then make terrible puns. Jaskier treats her like a goddess on the earth, and makes her laugh during sex, and whispers adoration when he thinks she’s asleep. And maybe… </p><p>Maybe the spindle of fate swings around her and Geralt. She feels it sometimes, when she looks at him. Not Jaskier. But she can make that choice. She can choose, in the end. Destiny never said anything about how they’d be together, she can choose to let herself love Jaskier. She can choose to love Geralt. And she can choose to take it away, if she must. </p><p>Geralt’s broad, sturdy hand rests on her hip. Jaskier’s hand finds it, tangling their fingers together and holding her in place with the link, soft and reassuring. </p><p>“Did you behave for Yennefer,” Geralt rumbles, and Jaskier makes a vague noise of irritation. </p><p>“Of course I behaved for Yennefer, what do you take me for?” Jaskier noses at the hollow of her throat, seeking reassurance, and she gently soothes him with a gentle stroke of her thumb over his cheekbones. “I can be good.” </p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt hums, and Jaskier grumbles. </p><p>“Don’t you take that tone with me,” Jaskier says, and then they’re off, Geralt humming his half of the conversation and Jaskier’s retorts getting more and more sleepy as he starts to drift, still tucked safely in her arms.</p><p>Yennefer closes her eyes, and stays.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Chronological Reading Order</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thank you for reading this collection! I’m very proud of how it turned out, and I hope you’ve enjoyed it. If you would like to go back and reread it through a new perspective, this is the chronological timeline of the stories. There are a few that might be a bit of a gut punch when read in order, so please consider it! Below you can find the reading order, the rough summary, and the year that each takes place. (And at some point I’ll actually link all of them in order but for now I’d just have two tabs open and check the list as you go, sorry.) </p>
<p>Happy reading!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>oOo</p>
</div>28: Mother (Stories of the parents of 4 Witchers) ????<p>4: Kaer Morhen (Vesemir causes problems) 11??</p>
<p>13: Portals (Young Geralt gets stuck in a tree) 1174</p>
<p>26: Contract (Coen’s best friend is an idiot) 1190-1193ish</p>
<p>19: Dragon (The nightmare trio learn to do mouth Signs) 1210ish</p>
<p>17: Throat (Blaviken aftermath) 1231</p>
<p>7:  Snow (Jaskier runs away) 1236</p>
<p>24: Hmmm (Jaskier and Geralt learn to communicate) 1240</p>
<p>14: Eyes (Jaskier confesses his love) 1240</p>
<p>2: Oxenfurt (Geralt picks up Jaskier for traveling) 1241 </p>
<p>10: Teeth (Jaskier’s first kill) 1244</p>
<p>23: Monster (Jaskier learns about eyeshine) 1244</p>
<p>21: Feral (Aiden is a Cat, and sometimes thinks he’s a cat) 1246</p>
<p>25: Silver (Jaskier does his duty to Lettenhove’s people) 1248</p>
<p>8: Chamomile (Geralt and Eskel discuss Jaskier) 1249</p>
<p>9: Destiny (Jaskier deal with the aftermath of Cintra) 1249-1250</p>
<p>30: Coin (Geralt gets his shit together) 1250</p>
<p>11: Hands (Yennefer meets up with Jaskier and Geralt) 1252</p>
<p>29: Aretuza (Yennefer falls in love with Geralt) 1256</p>
<p>18: Potions (Jaskier is drugged and Yennefer saves him) 1257</p>
<p>31: Sleep (All three sleep together for the first time) 1258</p>
<p>22: Wish (Aniki the Succubus gets a wish granted) 1258</p>
<p>27: Scream (Jaskier makes a choice) 1261</p>
<p>3: Woods (Hunt #1) 1262</p>
<p>6: Found (Hunt #2) 1262</p>
<p>16: Gallop (Hunt #3) 1262</p>
<p>20: Lost (Hunt #4) 1262</p>
<p>12: Baths (Lilac) 1262</p>
<p>1: Coast (Yennefer and Jaskier reunite) 1263 </p>
<p>5: Fire (Yennefer and Geralt talk about Sodden) 1264</p>
<p>15: Father (Geralt finds out about Jaskier’s children) 1266</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comments bring me great and abiding joy! Life is stressful, comments are free! Please feed your local starving author, they're doing their best. I'm really proud of this collection and would love to hear what you think! You can find me as Heronfem or kaer-cuan on tumblr, HeronVinn on twitter. Art and podfics welcome!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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